The Noble Emotions
by Faythe Marie
Summary: Quote: 'Hate is too close to love, and the immense obsession of thought required to produce the emotion is undesirable. One could come to rely on the one they hate as they would the one they love.' In 6th year, all the lines Draco knew blurred. DMHP.
1. Chapter 1

**_The Noble Emotions_**

_Chapter One_

Draco was the sort of person who found it quite easy to lie to himself. It was a skill he'd been nearly forced to acquire throughout his childhood. The distance between him and his father had been the most difficult thing Draco had had to deal with in his youth, and as time passed he learned to accept Lucius Malfoy's disapproving sneers as a sort of fatherly pride. He also learned to hold fast to the principles his father instilled in him, for the rare instances when Lucius took his son aside to teach him something were precious to the boy. As Draco reflected on the words of his father, a single lesson leapt into his mind, the memory feeling painful and nostalgic.

Lucius and Draco sat opposite one another in a carriage, being drawn towards the sprawling estate of the wealthy Malfoy family. "The only emotions worth displaying, or even feeling," Lucius had informed Draco, "are distaste and scorn." How this had become a subject of discussion as not remembered by the older Draco, but then again if he didn't recall how the conversation had begun, then it must not have been an important factor.

He did, however, remember feeling surprised at his father's proclamation. "What about hatred?" young Draco had asked. Bitterly, Draco recalled the sense of pride he felt that such an important and busy man as Lucius had taken the time to discuss these obviously imperitive matters with his son.

Lucius, Draco recalled, had given his son the familiar sneer and replied, "Not hatred. Hate is too close to love, and the immense obsession of thought required to produce the emotion is undesirable. One could come to rely on the one they hate as they would the one they love. And, as I have repeatedly told you, a Malfoy relies on no one but himself." This was, indeed, true, at least the last of it. Every lesson Lucius had ever taught his son came back to the independence and self-assuredness required to bear the Malfoy name with pride. All conversation for the duration of the carriage ride ceased, though in retrospect Draco wished he had had the heart and courage to continue it. There was so much beyond the few words they had exchanged, so many questions left unanswered by the proclamations of his father. And, though Draco did not know it at the time, it was the last of the fatherly advice Lucius had to offer. Any attempt at affection thereafter was deemed unnecessary. How this had been justified by the older Malfoy was unknown to his son, but the why of it was neither here nor there. It was enough, a very sad enough, that the smooth tones of Lucius' voice were never again directed at Draco for more than a few minutes at a time.

How ironic it was, Draco mused, that the last rule his father had ever given him would be the first one he would break. The doing of this was simple, utterly simple, as easy as shrugging into a fur-lined winter cloak. Without wasting too much time and effort, comfortably and efficiently, Draco had allowed himself to hate Harry Potter.

From the moment Potter had refused his handshake with his snide and disrespectfully polite remark, Draco had absorbed a great deal of his energy into hating Potter. It seemed to Draco that Potter got to do everything his little heart desired, merely because of his famous name. Their first year at Hogwarts was a prime example of that. Potter marching around the grounds with his broom and his friends, snooping into the affairs of others and nearly getting himself killed. It hadn't seemed fair to young Draco that any one person should have so much luck. And then, in their second year, Potter refused to let the mudbloods die and have done with it. He wasn't in danger as a half-blood, but just because of his filthy mudblood friend Granger he kept at his sleuthing ways, and was rewarded for it yet again. Their third year was a dismal affair for Draco, if only because that bloody hippogriff had "gotten away," and their fourth year could be summed up in two words; "Triwizard Cup." That was too bitter to be remembered, even in passing. The first truly decent year Draco had at Hogwarts was their fifth, what with Dolores Umbridge exerting her influence over staff and students, allowing most of the Slytherins but especially Draco the run of the castle. But, of course, Potter had found a way to thwart that, too, and the summer after fifth year was the most awful Draco had ever endured. It was the summer his father was taken to Azkaban for suspected (and proven) Death Eater involvement, and it was the summer Draco was forced to take on the role his father had played in Voldemort's circle. The summer he received the Mark.

Merely seconds after the ritual had been performed, Draco regretted it. He felt the weight of it always, a constant reminder of the fealty he'd sworn. That summer, he'd also been given an assignment. Oh, how his mother had wept when she found out. She went off to "be alone," and after the reclusiveness she'd adopted all summer, Narcissa's behavior concerned her son. When she returned several days later, she did, indeed, seem calmer. Draco didn't have the heart to ask where she'd been or what she'd done to achieve her level of peace, and Narcissa didn't offer the information. Mere weeks later, she sent her son back to Hogwarts, where the assignment was expected to be completed within the term. She didn't seem overly upset to see him go, and Draco soon discovered why. Bellatrix Lestrange, his all-too-interesting maternal aunt, would be moving in with her beloved sister. This news didn't trouble Draco much. While Bellatrix was far from desirable company, he would rather have someone for his mother to pass the time with than for her to be in that large, cold house by herself.

Term began, on a comforting note to the over-worked Draco. He had found Harry Potter snooping in his cabin on the train, lying on the floor in his Invisibility Cloak and listening in on the conversation of Draco and his fellow Slytherins. He had ignored it at the time, but as he left the train, he performed a Full-Body Bind Curse on the Gryffindor and removed the Cloak, revealing the innate Potter lying on his back and quite unable to do anything about it. After a sincere warning about what would happen next time Draco found Potter where he didn't belong, Draco replaced the Cloak and stepped purposefully on Potter's face, feeling an odd satisfaction when he heard the crunch of broken bone and cartilage. For a least a few moments, it felt good to be back.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Perhaps it was the elation causing Potter physical harm had given him, or perhaps it was the result of too much pudding at the feast, but the first night back Draco had a rather disturbing dream that he found difficult to forget. In it, Draco was forcibly taking Potter for his own sexual gratification, while Potter repeatedly begged him to stop. The most concerning component of the dream was that Draco was enjoying the atrocious acts he was committing, and was, in fact, turned on ever more by Potter's pleads to end it. The second most disturbing fact of this frightening nightscape was that Draco wasn't homosexual. Any number of sixth- and seventh-year Slytherin girls could attest to that. There was comfort, at least, in that once Draco realized what he was dreaming about he promptly woke up.

Lust was something he entertained, and frequently. Draco neither held himself in contempt nor applauded his sexual prowess, as none of his father's lessons had concerned the union of two willing bodies. Once Draco had been awake for a few minutes, he also found a reason to justify the images that had recently assailed his sleep, the justification being in the form of humiliation. What better way to humiliate your enemy than by raping him? Using another convenient skill of his childhood, Draco omitted the fact that his dreamself had enjoyed the act of raping Potter.

While Draco didn't sleep again that night, he didn't feel any more fatigued on the first day of classes than he'd been since his father's arrest. The one noticeable difference in his behavior, however, was a complete avoidance of Potter. Quite honestly, Draco couldn't look him in the ey without having flashes of created memory. If anyone else noticed this, they thankfully did not comment. Then again, the Slytherins, and most of the other students, as well, had learned by now not to question Draco's moods. There was a positive side, he decided, to being feared beyond having any semblance of a true friend.

By the time evening rolled around, the previous night's imagined escapades had nearly been driven from his mind, if only by the sheer amout of coursework his professors had placed in his lap. He had expected, or rather, hoped, that they would forgo the inevitable material for one night in the spirit of the start of term, but not even in his most trivial classes did Draco catch a break. Consequently, it was quite late when he finally laid down to rest, drawing the bed curtains around him. Sleep fell on him nearly instantly, but its beautiful, restorative effects did not last long. Once again, his slumber was interrupted by Potter, and more disconcertingly by Potter allowing (yes, allowing this time) Draco to perform any number of lewd acts on his person. The dream continued on past Draco's recognition of its subject matter, and he even found himself wishing it wouldn't end. With a wrench of sleeping thought, he pulled himself awake, sitting upright in his bed. His breathing was uneven, and his heartbeat raced. Two nights in a row. Draco had dreamed about Potter for two nights in a row. He resolved to get a dreamless sleep potion from Snape (who would ask the fewest questions) sometime within the week.

Despite the second appearance of Potter in his dreams, Draco felt the call of sleep in his over-worked body and fatigued mind. He laid down, drawing the covers to his chin, and closed his eyes. Potter did not visit him again that night.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Days passed, and the struggle to keep up with his work and still find time to accomplish the assignment he'd been given by the Dark Lord took its toll on Draco. His once polished appearance grew haggard and careworn, and he gave up all his lustful behaviors, simply because the exertion it took to reach any kind of fulfillment was needed elsewhere. Every ounce of energy was needed merely to keep him going.

And nights passed, as well, fitfully and without providing much rest to Draco. He either dreamed of what would happen if he failed the assignment, or he dreamed of Potter. For whatever reason, Potter was becoming a more active participant in the antics of Draco's mind, and with each passing dream he began to turn the tides on Draco's dreamself. On one night, nearly a month after all restful sleep had ceased, the tables were turned completely. Instead of Draco taking Potter on an increasingly consensual journey to ecstasy, Potter was taking Draco, and the ride was sweeter than anything Draco had ever experienced with any woman. It had been weeks since Draco had bothered to wake himself from these nightly visitations, but in this instance he found that he had no choice. He couldn't bear the sweet torment, nor could he stomach the thought of whom was providing him with this sensation. With a mighty pull at his subconscious, Draco dragged himself awake and emerged from a sleep haze of Potter and pleasure. As his brain slowly relinquished control to the world of the waking, Draco found himself in a condition that made him quite thankful to have drawn the curtains before lying down. To think that Potter, pathetic, Dumbledore's pet Potter, had caused him to lose control of himself in a dream as well as in his own bed was beyond his comprehension. Draco sighed. There would be no more futile attempts at sleep tonight. With an ever-deeper sigh, he heaved his weary body from his bed and set out to find his Invisibility Cloak. The silvery-grey Cloak turned up in one of his dresser drawers, and he cast it about his shoulders. Potter wasn't the only one to own one of these precious commoditites, he thought with a sneer.

It wasn't until he was outside the Gryffindor common room that he realized where he was going, or even that he was moving at all. His thoughts had been a swirling mass of anger and lust, which Draco realized to be a potent combination. Now that he was here, however, he had no idea how to proceed. It was well past curfew, and he had no idea what the Gryffindor password was, not that he could use it if he did. With a sarcastic sort of chuckle, he imagined the scene if he just happened to wander into their common room. "Hello, all," he imagined himself saying, "I'm looking for Potter. I just had this dream where he was fucked me, you see, and I wanted to visit him." No. Absolutely not.

As he stood, deep in thought, a figure, presumably an out-of-bed student, came towards him. Distracted as he was, Draco assumed that the student, who was moving at a rather impressive speed, would move to avoid him. Draco had, however, completely forgotten about the Invisibility Cloak he was wearing. The student slammed into him without slowing his considerable pace at all.

"What the-" the student exclaimed, in a tone of complete bewilderment, and his voice was one Draco knew all too well. He'd heard it over and over again, every night for the past month.

In the collision of bodies, both Harry and Draco had been thrown to the floor, and Draco's Cloak had been partially removed, revealing bits of his body and his face to a very surprised Potter. "Watch where you're going, Potter," Draco sneered, not quite realizing yet that Harry couldn't have stopped even if he wanted to.

Harry eyed Draco suspiciously and stood up. "I'm not the one standing in front of someone else's common room wearing an Invisibility Cloak, am I?" He dusted himself off. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Not that it concerns you," Draco coldly replied, doing his best to think of a plausible excuse off the top of his head, "but I'm here on prefect's business."

Harry looked at Draco intently for a few beats, seemingly attempting to gage the Slytherin's honestly. "Prefect's business?" he mused. "Well, then, I suppose I'll leave you to it."

The verbal exchange between Draco and Harry had awoken the Fat Lady at last, and she sleepily breathed, "Password?"

"Not right now," Harry muttered to the portrait.

The Fat Lady fully opened her eyes and saw that not all present were Gryffindor. "Oh. Well, hurry it up. I can't be expected to wait all night."

Draco, already irritable about the way this conversation was going, snapped, "Yes, you can. But I won't keep you any longer. I'm finished here." He donned the Cloak, and turned to leave. A sudden, vivid flash of his latest dream appeared to his mind's eye, and a rather unexpected pang of guilt followed it. "Potter, how's your nose?" he asked, trying to be as cold and uncaring in his concern as possible.

Harry stiffened, and looked at where he assumed Draco to be quite quizzically. "Fine," he replied with an air of finality. "Good night, Malfoy."

The walk back to the Slytherin common room was a long one for Draco, and his mind wandered far and wide, though he did not allow it to dwell on any of Potter's nightly appearances. He didn't quite know what he expected to come of his visit to the Gryffindors, but what had happened certainly wasn't it.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

Piles of textbooks and ancient volumes surrounded Draco, and nearly hid him from the view of his fellow Slytherins. He worked in an almost frantic, dogged manner, simultaneously trying to research efficient poisons and write a three-scroll essay on the usefulness of silver when confronting a werewolf. The essay was due the next morning, and Snape wouldn't allow excuses from anyone, not even Draco, his prized student. According to the former Potions Master, werewolves and how to defeat them would be a large part of the N.E.W.T. exams they would take seventh year. Perhaps it was the idea of N.E.W.T.s that made him so disinterested in this and other assignments. Draco had no idea where he would be the following term, but he highly doubted he would be at Hogwarts. If everything went according to plan, he would probably be in the ranks of Death Eaters by then, and if it didn't. . .well, then, chances were he wouldn't be anywhere at the start of term next year. The very thought made him shiver, on the inside, of course. Even in his current state of disrepair, he wouldn't reveal any passing fear to his classmates.

As he worked, steadily increasing the amount of words on the second scroll and finding several decent poisons that were worth further investigation, Pansy Parkinson approached him. She seemed vaguely nervous, for whatever reason. "Draco?" she asked, tentatively.

Draco stopped working and looked up at her. "What?" He was long past caring about the potential rudeness of his short, choppy sentences.

Pansy closed her eyes, and seemed to stifle a sigh. "Is everything. . .okay?" she finally said, her voice barely audible above the din of the common room.

Setting aside the half-finished essay, Draco looked her in the eye. "Okay?" he repeated, his voice adopting the cold touch he'd spent years perfecting. Draco didn't ask for elaboration. He didn't have to.

"We're worried about you," she admitted. Apparently feeling the need to explain herself, she added, "You haven't been yourself since the start of term."

Draco had an idea of what she meant by this, and was mildly surprised that she had asked. "Forgive me if my schoolwork has diminished my libido. I'll make a stronger effort to get you in my bed from time to time."

A flash of horror at his bald reference lit up Pansy's features, but was quickly surpressed by a neutral mask. "That's not what I meant. At all. Have you looked at yourself lately? I--that is, we--are concerned about your well-being."

"My well-being?" he queried, his eyes hardening into grey ice. "And I assume 'we' is every Slytherin in this room? Or is it just the girls who can say they know me?" He was getting very scornful, in fact, he was nearly angry. Draco had to reign himself in. "And why are you the chosen spokesperson, Pansy? Because you know me best?"

Pansy gave him a look that bordered on sadness, and possibly pity. He hated that she'd even considered pitying him. "Everyone, Draco, everyone is worried about you. From Crabbe to Zabini. And, no, no one asked me to care about you. I did that on my own." She laughed, a short, derisive bark. "That was a mistake, wasn't it?"

Draco stood, and gathered his books and parchment. He averted his gaze from Pansy's grief-stricken face. "Yes," he replied, and left the common room.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Draco sat in an obscure corner of the library, intently studying faded text informing him of the various banes of werewolves. Rational thought was a distant memory, however, and his mind was across the room, where Potter and his friends sat. The scratch of their quills and the whisper of their voices distracted Draco as the boisterous behavior in the common room hadn't. His ears itched to hear the content of their whispers, keeping him from even bringing the words in front of him into focus. This longing to hear Potter's conversation was utterly foreign to him; while he'd devoted nearly six years of his life to hating the Boy Who Lived, he'd never really bothered to wonder at Potter's personal life before.

With a supreme effort, Draco brought himself back to the task at hand, but his thoughts occasionally continued to drift. His treacherous mind wondered at things it should never have considered, and he realized (why this train of thought was even available, he didn't know) that Potter didn't have a girlfriend, and never really had, unless you counted the short stint with Chang the previous year. Vaguely, he found himself wondering if Potter was gay.

The moment the thought entered his mind, Draco physically recoiled from the book he was holding as if it had been Potter's hand. The large volume crashed to the marble floor with a solid thud, making Potter's threesome look up and over at Draco. Sneering heavily, Draco called, "Got a problem, Potter?" Hatred veritably dripped from his voice.

"Try to keep your books on your desk, Malfoy," Potter replied. "Some of us are actually trying to get work done."

"Is that what you're doing?" Draco asked maliciously. "Seems to me more like you're plotting something." He threw in an extra sneer for effect.

It was difficult to see from across the room, but it seemed like Potter was trying not to grin. "You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" Potter shot.

Hard as he tried, Draco could find no response. By the time he had something decent to say, the moment was gone and Potter was already bent over his book again. Questions clashed in Draco's already fogged brain. Did Potter know about Draco's assignment? How had he found out? Was his remark just a calculated guess?

Potter had gotten the last word, and he knew it. Draco hated him for that.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

In utter frustration, Draco returned to the common room, but bypassed the low-ceilinged meeting place, choosing instead the quiet and solitude of his dormitory. Though he shared the room with four other Slytherin sixth-years, the other boys seldom spent any time in their quarters, if only for the rather sad reason that Draco could usually be found there. Crabbe and Goyle were really the only ones who would dare to interrupt him when he was studying, and even they had learned by fourth year to pursue other interests when Draco was alone in the dorm. Now, he had complete solitude. No Pansy, who was obviously still pining after him, and no Potter, who causesd Draco to lose all drive and focus in his hatred of the boy.

Calmly, Draco propped his textbook against his pillow, and began writing halfway down the second scroll. As usual when he studied, he allowed no thought but the subject at hand into his mind. Consequently, it was some time before he noticed that a large eagle owl was perched on his desktop. He also failed to register the soft noises it had been emitting, in an attempt to get his attention. As he finished the last sentence of the second scroll, however, he looked up and gave a start to see the bird, gazing down at him demurely. Draco recognized it as his mother's.

With a frustrated sigh, he stood up and crossed the room to his desk, taking the letter from the owl's leg and quickly scanning it. The contents disturbed him little, his mother had been writing him frequent, contrite messages for some time now. Narcissa's attempts at small talk made him cringe, but Draco really couldn't blame her. The only company she'd had since September was Bellatrix, who wasn't exactly what any half-sane human being would call pleasant. Draco imagined that the combined stress of her husband's indefinite imprisonment and the constant presence of her insane sister was causing his mother to lose her mind in stages. The first of these had been an acute reclusiveness. For nearly two months after Lucius' arrest, Narcissa hadn't left her home at all, and had sent Draco for any groceries they might need. The second stage necessitated Draco to leave the estate less frequently, as Narcissa had a complete loss of appetite. Though she had always been a light eater to begin with, Narcissa now consumed no nutrients at all. Her body was slight in build, but the utter lack of received nutrients had caused it to turn on itself, viciously hunting for any extra fat it could use to fuel necessary life processes. Draco assumed that Bellatrix would, at least, assure that her sister ate a minimal amout of food, even if it was by force. From his limited experience with her, and the stories he'd heard associated with her, Draco had inferred that Bellatrix would see to it that you always had what you least wanted.

These letters were now, apparently, the third stage of Narcissa's mental failings, for while they arrived daily, the most substantial information they contained was the state of her small rose garden. Still, out of a sense of duty and the little respect he had for his mother, Draco returned them unfailingly, though he offered hardly any more information than she offered him.

He sat down at the desk and cleared a space. Grabbing a piece of parchment and a quill, Draco scratched out a greeting to his mother. Even though the full and complete letter took up only half of a scroll, the time it took to write the message put Draco well past midnight. As he scrawled his signature across the bottom and rolled it to be sent, he gazed at the half-finished work on his bed. With an empty acknowledgment, he realized that the two finished scrolls he had would be the only two turned in to Snape the next day. Perhaps if he rolled the two together, he wouldn't be noticed until after Snape began grading them. He clearly wasn't meant to finish the essay, anway. Why tempt fate? Accepting his unfortunate circumstances, Draco sent the owl on its way and packed up his school things. As of yet, Crabbe and Goyle were still in the common room. Draco decided to take the opportunity to fall asleep before the other boys did.

As usual, however, he didn't sleep alone. Potter stayed with him all night, and for once Draco didn't will him away.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

"In," Snape commanded once class had officially begun. A frenzied rustling filled the stagnant air as forty Gryffindors and Slytherins searched their bags for the tremendous assignment due. Resignedly, Draco pulled the tightly-rolled scroll from his satchel and passed it to the former Potions Master. Snape eyed the scroll, and then his prized student. "Mr. Malfoy," Snape addressed, his voice devoid of emotion or judgment, "what is this?"

Draco had the uneasy feeling that he was about to be found out in front of his classmates and (worse) the Gryffindors. "My werewolf essay, sir," he replied. He wasn't lying; technically, the parchment in Snape's hand was an essay. It just wasn't quite a finished one.

"Yes, I would assume so," Snape mused, an oily confidence building in his tone. "I meant, why are you presenting it to me like this?"

Draco felt trapped, and only saw two ways out of it. He could admit that the essay was unfinished and take the empty mark, or he could lie. He didn't waste much time deciding. "You did say scrolls, sir. I assumed you wanted them presented in the fashion of traditional scrolls."

Snape looked Draco in the ey for a few beats, challenging him to back down. In the end, however, he muttered, "So I did. For future reference, Mr. Malfoy, 'scroll' refers to scroll length. I prefer loose-leaf parchment." Much to Draco's relief, Snape moved on to the next student, who gave the professor not just three pieces of parchment, but five.

A week ago, Draco realized, he would have cared about this.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three_

**_Be Advised: This chapter contains mature themes not intended for readers under the age of seventeen. If you are under seventeen and continue on past this warning, the author cannot be held accountable. If you are seventeen or older, however, the author heartily recommends this chapter. It's damn good. Haha._**

If Snape uttered a single word of any import during his lecture that day, Draco missed it. The sixth-year was mentally berating himself the entire class period, wondering how he could have become so dismally lazy. With a competitive ire, he wondered how many scrolls Potter had turned in, if the far less prodigious student had turned in any at all. Draco found himself clinging to the pathetic hope that Potter had forgotten about the assignment, but the fragments of rationality that remained in his brain argued that Snape would have publically humiliated Potter if he'd forgotten entirely.

Indeed, there were two words Draco heard in the entire class period that stuck; "class dismissed." He stood up and began packing his things away.

"Mr. Malfoy, if you would, stay a moment. I need to speak with you," Snape requested, but his tone clearly said Draco had no say in the matter.

Draco nodded, and waited. Instead of addressing him again, however, Snape turned his back to Draco and began cleaning the chalkboard. Draco had never considered himself patient, and when five minutes of his time slipped away, he could wait no longer. "Sir?" he asked, doing his best to keep bitterness out of his voice. "Did you say you needed to speak to me?"

Without turning around, Snape replied, "I did." But he offered no more.

Clearing his throat, Draco found himself in an uncomfortable position. He hated being led, and he hated waiting. This was really a test of which hatred would win out. "About what?" he finally ventured, both petty hatreds tumbling together.

Snape turned around at last, and looked at Draco as though his reason for being there was as plain as day. "Your assignment," he clarified, making it perfectly obvious that Draco's inability to decipher this on his own was undesirable.

Draco felt anger rise in his throat, though whom it was directed at he wasn't sure. "Sir, I know I didn't give you the assigned number of scrolls, but I've been-"

"Do not make excuses for yourself," Snape interrupted. "Only muggles and fools make excuses."

Draco resisted the urge to hang his head in shame. "Yes, sir."

"Besides," Snape continued, "I wasn't talking about that assignment. You will be graded on the quality of the two scrolls you gave me, and points will be docked for the missing page."

Draco was astounded. That was as close to fair as Snape had ever been, even with him. "Thank you, sir," he said, rather breathlessly. Despite his earlier self-assurance that he didn't care about the essay, knowing that he would receive any points at all filled him with relief.

"Do not let it happen again," Snape warned, his tone indicating that he didn't appreciate the interruption of the matter at hand. "No, Mr. Malfoy, I was referring to the assignment you were given over the summer." He stepped out from behind his desk, closer to Draco. "Have you found a way to accomplish the task?"

Ah. That was why Snape asked him to stay behind, and probably why he'd given Draco a little slack about the essay. Draco wondered how long Snape had known, and who had told him. He also wondered which of his potential plans would earn him the most favor with Snape. Remembering the professor's fondness for potions, he decided to bring up the most recent of his ideas. "I was considering several poisons," Draco informed his professor. "I've found many that would efficiently complete the assignment."

Snape gave a curt half-nod. "Poison is a very subtle way to go," he replied. "It doesn't require you to sully your hands." He was silent for a moment, his thin lips pressed together. "You could not possibly master the Killing Curse at your age, and if you plan to make this quiet, then I'm afraid poison is your only option."

The same thought had also struck Draco, several times. He had, however, found one other possibility, and he mentioned it to the professor now. "I was only considering poison, sir, but I do have another plan that would be as distant and simple."

At this, Snape was instantly considerably more interested. "Tell me."

As Draco detailed his plan to the professor, he felt relieved that Snape seemed to enjoy the idea and the simple results. He left the room shortly after, but as he was walking out the door, Snape called out to him.

"One more thing," Snape added, "I scarcely feel I should have to say this, but the conversation that just took place did not occur." Apparently not sensing a reiteration of the utmost secrecy, he warned, "Under any circumstances, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco nodded, surprised, but properly chastised into silence. "Good-bye, professor," he ventured, but, as he expected, he received no response.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Draco was late to lunch, of course. He'd been held over by Snape for almost twenty minutes, he realized as he took his seat. Instantly, he was accosted by Crabbe and Goyle, who repeatedly asked him where he'd been for over a quarter of an hour. Draco knew from experience that they would not stop asking until he gave them some form of answer. "Had to do with my assignment," he muttered, taking his seat the table.

The Slytherins had an interesting hierarchy in place in the Great Hall. While the other Houses usually had places where they sat as a habit, Slytherins had a system in place that allowed you to slowly move up the table as you progressed in your wizarding training and skill level. Draco was quite proud to say that his place was nearly at the very head. It was also, unfortunately, across from Pansy's. Since their uneasy break-up several weeks ago, he hadn't invited conversation with her. On this particular day, however, she seemed determined to get his attention.

"Where were you?" she asked, her voice quietly demanding.

He briefly considered ignoring her, but thought better of it. Ignoring her would be admitting that he was ashamed about the way he behaved to her the night before. Draco Malfoy was never ashamed of himself. "Snape," he answered, hoping the response would be enough.

It wasn't. "Is everything okay?" she inquired. "Are you in trouble?"

"No, I'm not in trouble," Draco veritably snapped. "Why would I be in trouble?"

Pansy sighed. "I don't know. Why would you?"

Her tone astounded him. It seemed to suggest that she might actually know something about what he was supposed to do. But then, of course she would be suspicious. While he'd coldly insulted her the previous evening, Pansy really did know him better than anyone. "No reason for me to be," he replied.

Pansy sighed again, the sound seeming to come from deep inside her. "Draco, is there any chance we could talk sometime? Alone, maybe?" Something in her posture seemed to suggest that she had more than talking on her mind.

Draco nodded, pushing aside his plate. He really wasn't hungry. "We can talk now," he replied, in what he considered to be a genial tone. "Come on."

Pansy stood and followed Draco out of the Hall, and they wandered into the dungeons without uttering a word. For wanting to talk, Draco mused, she was oddly silent. "Well?" he prompted.

She looked at his face in profile, and her voice was pained. "Draco, I. . .just. . .I'm sorry, I guess, for whatever I said wrong. I hate all the space between us. We've always been close, but this year, I don't. . .you're different. The way you spoke to me last night was so. . .Draco, what's really wrong?"

It had taken her so long to get to the point that Draco wondered if she even had one. How sad, to buy time with him on her feigned concern. But still, the way she looked with her face so open and her eyes so searching was a bit of a turn-on, and it had been an awfully long time. . .perhaps he could spare the energy, just one time. "You're right, Pansy," he murmured, his voice dropping into its lowest, rumbling octaves. More than once he'd made her tremble with his sultry tones. "I haven't spent enough time with you." He looked into her eyes, melting them with a soft smile. "I'm willing to make it up if you are."

Pansy searched his face for honesty, and then threw her arms around his neck. "Oh, Draco!" she breathed. "It's so good to hear you say that."

When it seemed as though she wanted to ramble on longer, Draco took her sweet, pouting lips in a long, hungry kiss. Maybe it was his long absence from the practice messing with his head, but it somehow seemed different than he remembered. It was less enjoyable. Pushing thought from his brain, he continued to fog her senses with his skillful tongue and tasting lips. When he pulled away, he glanced at his watch and saw that they had three minutes to get to potions. "7:30," he told her, and she nodded, adjusting her hair.

"7:30," she repeated for confirmation, and scurried off to class. Draco felt rather proud of himself. After the mind-numbing experience of his kisses, he doubted that she remembered her original question.

Draco, what's really wrong?

He realized that he had absolutely no idea.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

At two minutes past 7:30, there was a knock at the door to Draco's dormitory. He had been studying the various elements of his most promising poison, and was completely alone. Despite knowing exactly who was at his locked door and why, Draco didn't feel any thrill of anticipation. Rather, he wanted to get it over with so he could continue his research. Wondering at this lack of phenomenon, he opened the door to Pansy.

She wore her dark hair loose, around her petite shoulders. A hint of lipstick colored her pale lips, and her cheeks flushed prettily. "Am I late?" she asked in her wispy, breathless voice.

He hadn't been anticipating the moment before she arrived, but now that she was before him in her familiar splendor Draco felt the stirrings of lust inside him. "Not at all," he replised huskily. She stepped past him into the large room. Her eyes lingered on the open volume lying across Draco's pillow.

"Were you studying?" she asked, a hint of flirtation in her voice.

"I was," he admitted, stepping close to her and tipping her face to his. "But we don't have to talk about that."

"No?"

"No." Draco kept his eyes open as he lowered his mouth to hers and began the slow process he'd once reveled in. He used his lips to mold her mouth to his, making hers soft and pliant. This kiss was much more intimate than the one they'd shared in the corridor. That had been a greeting. This was a conversation.

He coaxed her lips apart with his tongue and began exploring the moist cavern of her mouth. She moaned a quiet moan, and he pulled her closer. Draco's hands ran the length of her torso, but the sensation wasn't as pleasant as it should have been. He blamed it on her cumbersome clothing.

Slowly, he removed her robes, unfastening each button with deliberate care. His mouth never left hers.

Her skin was as soft as he remembered it, and her hair still smelled faintly of jasmine, but the touch and the scent of her wasn't helping him prepare himself for the task ahead. Suddenly, he realized what was wrong. Pansy's hands were at her sides, hanging loosely. Pulling away from her, he whispered, "Pansy. Don't be afraid to touch me. I'm not going to bite you."

"I know that, Draco," she replied, looking into his eyes with an expression of complete bewilderment. "You're different," she explained after a beat of silence. "I don't feel like I know you anymore."

Draco gathered her close and splayed his fingers in her hair. "Now is a perfect time to get to know me." He felt his ability to get through this diminishing, and he desperately tried to hold on to it. "Touch me, Pansy," he commanded.

She did, tentatively running her fingers along his jawline with one hand and removing the outermost layer of his clothing with the other. He brought his hand to the hand she was touching his face with, and held it as she explored the contours of his face. "You feel the same," she sighed, obvioiusly relieved. Her hands, now, became more urgent; she felt the hard plane of his chest beneath his shirt and the angles of his face, and he allowed her to help him out of the rest of his difficult clothing.

Strangely, his own hands did not feel the need to explore her body, and they rested above her breasts, curled into half-fists. To cover his listlessness, he kneaded the soft skin there with his knuckles.

They stood in the center of the room; him completely de-robed, her partially clothed, and he decided to remove the rest of her garb. As he did so, his mind wandered away from her and to his bed. It struck him that she hadn't been in it since the previous term. No one had. The accompanying shame of this for one of his reputation made him want to rush her into it, and he retook her mouth urgently. Their naked bodies pressed together tightly, and the feel of her against him brought at last the erection that had eluded him in foreplay. Draco led her to the bed, and laid her down beneath him. He trailed his mouth down her jaw, her throat, her breasts; where he lingered over each, feeling vaguely proud when her nipples rose against his mouth.

He continued trailing his kisses along her belly, but a sudden churn in his stomach reduced his urge to go any further. Slowly, he brought himself up to her, and staring into her eyes he slipped himself into her enveloping warmth. They found a steady rhythm, and rode together to a fulfillment that seemed to take him a while to achieve.

Aferwards, she lay by his side for a while, and he couldn't help but think that she wasn't as good as she used to be. He waited for her to compliment him on his skill, but no gushing thank-yous came. Instead, she looked him in the eye and honestly said, "You're listless."

Despite having the same opinion of his performance, he felt his pride prickling at her criticism. "Perhaps it wasn't my fault. I had to coax you to get you to even touch me."

"Because I wasn't ready to yet," she replied, obviously hurt. "And you didn't want me to." Pansy got up, and began redressing.

"Of course I did," he argued. "Pansy-"

"No, you didn't," she interrupted him, pulling her shoes on. "Good-bye, Draco." And she left.

Good-bye. Not good night. Pansy was trying to make a point.

But, said his impartial mind, she had a point. Draco had been listless, and really didn't want her to touch him. If he was incredibly honest with himself, he had been comparing her the entire time and found her lacking.

Draco was not, however, honest enough to admit that he'd been comparing her to his dreams of Potter.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter Four_

There was something wrong with Narcissa. Oh, there were many things wrong with her, but it seemed to Draco that there was something especially wrong. His concern wasn't really based on anything, and he definitely had enough problems on his own without adding to it, but for whatever reason he couldn't shake the feeling that there was a serious problem at his home.

A week after his first suspicions about Narcissa emerged, they were confirmed. Her letters stopped coming.

Given the content of her contrite messages and the slow madness they represented, Draco should have been elated rather than worried that they had stopped, but he could not shake the disconcerting feeling that they had not stopped because of a sudden relapse into sanity. Rather, he had an almost premonitory feeling that she had taken to her bed and refused to get up.

One night, as he studied for the Transfiguration test he had to suffer through the next day, Draco heard the familiar scratching of an owl at the tiny, high window in his dorm.

Relief filled him as he opened it and let in his mother's owl. Draco took the small scroll from its leg and unrolled it, surprised by its length. The parchment did not, however, contain his mother's flowing script, instead it was written in cramped, messy printing and signed in the same hand as "B. Lestrange."

Numbly, Draco read the letter, barely registering the words in his mind. He saw a mention of his father, and his mother's name written once or twice. The actual passages didn't seem to have much purpose, and the paragraphs were only joined by loose, vague references to the one before. There was, however, one word that seemed to leap out at him, grabbing his attention and disallowing him from continuing his read.

Kiss. Why would Bellatrix Lestrange write kiss? As Draco's narrowed attention widened ever so slightly, he saw that his father's name was in the same sentence as the unexpected noun. Valiantly, his mind rejected the sentence and it seemed to hold no other words.

Lucius. . .kiss. Slowly, the words appeared, one at a time. Lucius will receive the Kiss.

As the last word came into view, all words and all images seemed to disappear. The sentence pounded in his brain, reverberated in his skull.

Lucius will receive the Kiss. Could it be true? Could he trust any information provided by Bellatrix? Quickly, his mind conjured a defense against this difficult information. No. Bellatrix could not be trusted under any circumstances, and especially not these. Definitely not.

Still, he sat down on his bed and read through the entire letter, allowing each word to wash over and around him. The full force of this strange, foreboding missive struck him with a heavy blow.

Numb and cold and withered. His heart and his body and his mind closed upon him, until he could not see the scrawled words, could not feel loss or pain, could not begin to imagine his father's horror.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Draco opened his eyes to find himself neatly tucked into his bed. Bewildered as to how he got there, he sat up and saw a most familiar face gazing at him with large green eyes.

"Draco Malfoy, sir!" Dobby squeaked, obviously over-joyed to see his former master. "Dobby is happy to see you awake!"

Shaking his head, sure this must be some form or another of a dream, Draco replied groggily, "Dobby? How - what are you doing here?"

"Dobby works for Professor Dumbledore now," the house-elf explained. "But Dobby has been keeping an extra eye on Mr. Malfoy, sir. Dobby doesn't forget how good Mr. Malfoy was to him."

Astounded, Draco looked at the queer creature before him with a fresh eye. He wore blue soccer shorts, neatly pressed, and a scarf in Gryffindor red and gold. Several hats teetered precariously on his head. Dobby's feet bugled tremendously with more a few pairs of socks. "Why are you wearing. . ." Draco started, but dismissed the unusual question with a shake of his head, choosing instead to ask, "Why are you here?"

"Harry Potter has told Dobby to watch over you!" Dobby piped up, but the second the words were out of his mouth his facial expression froze itself in an affixture of horror. He ran to the stone wall and began bashing his head against it. "Bad Dobby! Very bad Dobby!" he repeated to himself, his cries growing louder with each bash.

Draco was too used to this to be overly-concerned, and allowed the house-elf to punish himself until its incessant screeches grated at his nerves, at which point he loudly commanded, "Cease!" And the air became still. "What do you mean, 'Harry Potter sent you to watch over me'?" he asked, indicating clearly that he expected an answer.

Dobby heed and hawed and rocked on the balls of his socks, averting his gaze from the Slytherin. "Harry Potter. . .Harry Potter is not a bad person!" Dobby squeaked, as though Draco had said something against the half-blood.

Delicately, Draco raised a single eyebrow. "No?" he mused. The elf's behavior was odd. "You are not Potter's servant, Dobby, and you aren't bound to him. There's no reason for you to defend him, or hide his secrets."

But Dobby shook his head violently. "Harry Potter needs no oath from Dobby! Dobby would do anything for Harry Potter! Harry Potter set Dobby free from - " And here Dobby stopped, for he had been suddenly struck again with his horrified expression, and took to bashing his head against Draco's oak desk.

"Enough!" Draco shouted, weary already of the house-elf. As a child, he had delighted in Dobby's antics, but as the sweet innocence of youth faded (far too quickly in Draco's eyes), he saw the creature for what it was; a servant. Nothing more than a slave to the will of the Malfoys. After this realization, much of his respect for Dobby crumbled. "You're not beholden to the Malfoys, either. Tell me what you meant when you said Potter sent you."

Reluctantly, Dobby began his story. "Dobby was called to Harry Potter two nights ago, to watch over Draco Malfoy. Dobby is to look for anything suspicious Draco Malfoy may be doing. Dobby is doing this favor for Harry Potter." The elf seemed dismally close once again to smashing his skull against a hard surface.

Quickly, Draco said, "It's okay, Dobby. You work for Dumbledore, not Potter, not me. You only have to punish yourself if you do anything against him." He wasn't taking pity on the inferior being, he assured himself, he was merely sick of its noisy flagellations.

Dobby looked at Draco with misty eyes. "Draco Malfoy has grown up to be such a good person, taking kindness to poor Dobby. Never did Dobby imagine he would be as noble and wise as he is." The wretched creature blew its nose on a corner of its scarf.

This type of flattery made even Draco uncomfortable, particularly because what Dobby was saying wasn't true in the slightest. Painfully, he remembered the Dobby of his youth, a kind caring soul. Draco had spent more time with Dobby than any childhood friend. Dobby had always had a smile and a kind word ready, and reflecting on his past Draco felt distinctly remorseful that he had shunned the elf after he understood that Dobby was his servant. Draco could, in fact, trace the few morals he had back to the teachings of this sweet, odd little creature.

Thinking about his childhood inevitably brought up his father, and flashes of grief so sharp they may as well have been knives gripped him, shaking him fiercely. Filled with alarm, Dobby was at his side in an instant, babbling sympathies and patting Draco's elbow. Just these small gestures were kinder than any other hand that had touched him, more soothing than any word whispered in his ear. "Tell Dobby," the elf worried and cooed, "Tell Dobby what upsets him."

So, achingly, feeling tears well in his eyes and emotion choke his throat, Draco told his sad, strange story to his small, insubstantial being, surprising himself by the poignancy of the words that tumbled from his mouth. He went back to the beginning, apologizing for treating Dobby badly, and receiving a sweet forgiving smile from the elf in return. He detailed the pressure of living up to the family name and how much harder it was without any real friends. The only one had had ever felt he could talk to was Pansy, and the way that relationship had ended produced a fresh wave of grief in the stricken Draco. He rambled about his father's imprisonment, his mother's madness, his own flailing efforts to succeed. Everything, substantial and otherwise, that had ever bothered him poured forth from a broken dam of emotion. Every Christmas he'd spent pretending elaborate gifts were the same as love, every summer he'd sat in the manor without company, every time Potter had looked at him with hate in his eyes because Draco hated him first. He saved for last the despairingly hopeless owl he'd received earlier in the evening, and here words could not describe the anguish, could not begin to explain his acute sense of loss. Instead, he relied on his increasing tears to tell the story for him, and even Dobby cried to hear of the impending fate of his former master, for though Lucius had been cruel he had also suffered through Dobby's whims and failings as a house-elf.

Together, they sat and cried and rocked and shook until the world did not exist, until, bound by their grief, this pureblood son of a prominent wizard and this tiny, wretched creature tied to a life of servitude became a single, grieving being, and the pain was slightly more bareable as they embarked on a solitary journey together, taking only their sadness to accompany them.

Time passed, though how much of it or how quickly it did so was beyond Draco. All he knew is that eventually he resurfaced to some semblance of sanity, and that when he did Dobby was still patting his arm. "Draco Malfoy is better than his father," Dobby told him, looking up at Draco with red-rimmed eyes. "Draco Malfoy is better than his family."

Pride swelled in Draco's thorat, but it was unlike any pride he'd ever had before. This pride felt somehow pure, and he wanted to be worthy of the respect he heard in Dobby's voice. This was a warm, emotional pride that filled him and held him. He looked the house-elf in the eye, something he'd been taught to avoid. With this strange, new emotion flowing in him, Draco replied, "Thank you, Dobby."

Smiling, his wrinkled face happy once more, Dobby said, "Draco Malfoy doesn't thank Dobby. Dobby would do anything for Draco Malfoy." The house-elf pulled the blankets around Draco, tucking him in. "Dobby must go back to work now," he informed Draco, and with a crack he was gone.

The absence of the house-elf made Draco question whether the entire experience had been a dream. Despite what he desperately wished to believe, the time he'd spent crying to and with his former servant had a painful, real quality that was difficult to forget. He remembered the pride, almost a fatherly pride, in Dobby's voice and found himself wanting to be worthy of it. Lying in his bed, staring at the cool green curtains, he began to understand the way his life would be if he continued to emulate his father. He would believe that his money and bloodline made him worth more than the rest of all society. He would marry a pureblood that he probably didn't love, and his children would have the best of everything except for the affection they deserved. He would follow whoever was in power like a coward, but swagger his confidence like a hero. He would take pride in his lack of emotion and sympathy, and allow only distate and scorn - just as his father had taught him - to sour his countenance. He would spend a lifetime making easy decisions, carefully avoiding any that required him to stick his neck out or involve his heart.

He would, in fact, be exactly the man he had already become. iWhat do I want?/i Draco asked himself, and for once he really listened for the answer.

But nothing came, and no sudden revelation hit him. Feeling empty and forlorn, Draco drifted asleep.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

He awoke with an awful idea. A terrible, wonderful, awful idea. Still grinning over his genius, Draco waited for Dobby to come to clean the dorm.

The elf did, cheerfully whistling out-of-tune. "Good morning, Draco Malfoy, sir!" he greeted in a bright tone.

The slightest of smiles creased Draco's lips, and he replied, "Good moring, Dobby."

"Does he need something special of Dobby, sir?" Dobby asked shrewdly.

Draco was surprised. He'd been waiting for Dobby to ask a favor of him, but the elf's ability to sense a request amazed him. "Yes, actually," Draco replied, "I need to ask a favor of you."

Delight animated the elf's features, and his green eyes lit up excitedly. "Anything Draco Malfoy asks, Dobby will do."

For whatever reason, Dobby's simple reply choked Draco's throat with the same pure pride he'd felt the night before. He tried to repress it as best he could. "I need you to watch Harry Potter."

"Harry Potter does nothing wrong, sir!" Dobby squeaked, setting about his elfly duties. "Harry Potter is a good person!"

Draco suppressed a grimace. He had his own reasons for tailing Potter, and it would be made significantly easier if Dobby would just cooperate. "I know he is," he said to appease the house-elf. "I just want you to watch. . .who he hangs around."

Dobby's already large eyes grew wider, and he nodded. "Dobby knows Harry Potter's friends!" he said, trying to be helpful. "Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger!"

With the smallest sigh, Draco replied, "I mean any. . .special friends Potter might have." He didn't expect Dobby to understand. He just needed him to do what Draco asked. "Please."

Dobby smiled. "Draco Malfoy has my word."


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Five_

Reinvention of oneself is not as easy as it looks, Draco would eventually decide. It requires persistence of will, and someone to fall back on when you can't do any more on your own.

When Draco began his own reinvention process, however, he knew known of these things. He set up a plan to see him through the few weeks he assumed it would take, and the utter simplicity of the steps he'd anticipated would later astound him. The first of these was to stop using, either in thought or speech, the word "mudblood." It seemed to Draco, however, that no matter how hard he tried, the dreaded word would crop up, usually in reference to Granger. By the third day of his new beginning, he ceased speaking the word, and if it happened to appear in his thoughts it could not be helped.

He then focused his energies on making real friends. Most of the students in his House, however, grew fearful of this newly friendly Draco. Even Crabbe and Goyle were confused. . .more than usual, that is. And as Draco would tell no one of his plan to become a better person, no viable excuse could be given for his actions.

Pansy approached him about it one evening. "Are you sure you're all right?" she had asked. Her facial expression suggested she was working with a dangerous, untamable animal.

Draco had smiled - really smiled - at her. "Yes, of course," he replied. "In fact, I'm feeling better than I have in years."

While she seemed at first reluctant to ask, she eventually came out with a, "Why?"

Seriously, studying her face, Draco explained, "I understand what I am now. And I'm trying to make what I am what I was."

Without any type of reply, Pansy had wandered back to her corner of the common room.

Yes, Draco understood what he was. He was the embodiment of everything Lucius Malfoy stood for. Draco had blindly followed his father's every missive. As he considered the second step of his reinvention, it brought to mind a faraway discussion between father and son as they approached King's Cross station, sending Draco to Hogwarts for the first time.

"Be careful of who you talk to, Draco," Lucius advised his son. "Not everyone attending a wizarding school belongs there."

As he dug further into the memory, Draco recalled being very faintly annoyed that his father thought he had to say this. "Father, I know all about mudbloods. I can tell them from the purebloods."

The annoyance traded hands, and Lucius' countenance was creased with its presence. "That's not what I meant, Draco. There are so-called purebloods who have made a mockery of their ancestry, who deserve to be wizard less than mudbloods. Mudbloods, at least, don't know any better." And Lucius proceeded to list several family names he was to avoid. Some were obvious, like the Weasleys, but some puzzled young Draco. The name that stuck in his mind for the longest time and most interested him was Zabini, particularly after he met Blaise Zabini. The boy was Slytherin through and through, if a little rough around the edges. He had a sort of quiet confidence that stemmed not from a sense of family pride but from an acute knowledge of his own self-worth.

Of course, "met" is a very loose and perhaps inappropriate term. Because of Lucius' instruction, Draco had never spoken to Zabini, showing the dark-skinned Slytherin open scorn. Their circles spun in entirely different directions, and though they shared a dormitory their paths almost never crossed. But Draco had never stopped being curious about his roommate, even if he'd never had the courage to go against his father's rules.

Yet it dawned on Draco as he embarked on the reinvention process that he'd been breaking Lucius' cardinal commandment for nearly six years. Would it really matter if he broke a much more trivial missive? After deliberating the matter obsessively in his mind for several days, he decided that reaching out to Zabini would be worth it.

Saying it, however, is much different than actually doing it. Draco hadn't had to speak to anyone but Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy for an extended period of time in years. While he understood the concept of reaching out to someone, he didn't have any idea how to go about it.

Talking to Zabini in the common room was out of the question. Blaise was bound to be suspicious of Draco, and he didn't think he could handle any social humiliation. Their seats at lunch were in entirely separate areas of the table, and Draco wasn't about to upset the delicate hierarchy in place. Classes were also not an option; whatever Zabini was planning on going into, it kept him out of most of Draco's. The only way Draco could think of to talk to him was to meet up with him in their dorm.

For three nights, he sat up as long as he possibly could and waited for Zabini to wander in. After a third sleepless night, it dawned on Draco that Zabini was probably avoiding him, though for the life of him Draco had no idea why. So, on the fourth night, Draco went into the dorm immediately after dinner and didn't emerge for anything. He resolved to stay awake as long as it took.

By two o'clock in the morning, Draco was lying across his bed fully-robed and staring at the door intently. He'd been staring at the door for so long that he felt its image was permanently ingrained in his mind's eye. Every other thought that popped into his head (and by this time hardly any thoughts occurred to him at all) was punctuated with "the door."

So when the door finally opened and Zabini finally came in for the night, Draco was rather inclined to believe that neither the door nor Zabini existed. Zabini's existence, at least, was proven when he spoke. "What are you doing awake?" he asked, looking vaguely trapped.

"I can't sleep," Draco lied smoothly. "What are you doing awake?" Rebounding Zabini's question back on himself seemed like a reasonable way to start a conversation.

Much to Draco's surprise, however, Zabini seemed mildly annoyed and positively defensive once Draco had spoken. "That's not really any of your business, is it?" he veritably snapped.

Draco was floundering. This was definitely not going well. He was bad at this sort of thing. "No, it's not," he agreed. Silence reigned high for several seconds while Draco considered his strategy. "I was trying to make conversation," he eventually admitted.

This seemed to dig the hole Draco was in even deeper. Zabini's defensive mask hardened. "Why are you trying to make conversation with me?" he asked bluntly.

Now Draco was the one feeling frustrated and annoyed. He was trying to be a good person and Zabini suspected him of foul play. If he hadn't been so dreadfully tired, he may have realized the irony of the situation. As it was, however, he was running out of things to say and was reconsidering the importance of real friends. "Why shouldn't I try to make conversation with you?" Even in his head the sentence hadn't made much sense, yet it still somehow managed to leak out of his mouth.

"You haven't said two words to me the entire time we've been at Hogwarts," Zabini explained, his tone distant and faintly bitter. "Forgive me for being a little suspicious."

"Do you blame that entirely on me?" Draco snapped, the words flying out of his mouth before he could stop them. "Did it ever occur to you to be hospitable when someone speaks to you?"

Zabini laughed, though the sound contained absolutely no mirth. "Hospitable?" he asked, an incredulous note in his voice. "Malfoy, you are the last person to be preaching on how to be hospitable."

"Maybe I've changed," Draco replied. "Maybe I'm a better person than I used to be, and that's why I'm talking to you in the first place."

"Maybe you're jealous that I'm in the Slug Club and you're not," Zabini shot back. "Maybe you're trying to find a way to bring me down now that I've finally made something of myself."

Draco was in complete awe of the bitterness he heard in Zabini's voice. This wasn't the anger built up by the things Draco had said wrong in a single conversation; it was the kind that brews for years, warping the mind obsessively. The kind of hatred Draco had for Potter. He might as well acknowledge his quest for friendship as a lost cause. "You really don't like me, do you?" he said quietly, losing the frustrated, annoyed quality to his voice.

Zabini sighed, and faced Draco honestly. Draco hadn't realized until he did it that he'd been avoiding it. "No, not really."

"Can I ask why?" Draco had devoted far too much attention to befriending Zabini to just give up.

Evenly, though still with a trace of ire, Zabini replied, "It's probably not the best idea, Malfoy." Without another word, Zabini pulled the bed curtains from around his four-poster and crawled in.

Long after Zabini's gentle snores filled the dorm, Draco lay awake in his bed, remembering all the things he'd done and hadn't done. It struck a melancholy chord in him that every choice he'd made had molded him in his father's image. He also wondered why he could only seem to think clearly right before he fell asleep.

Whatever the reason, the fact was that his thoughts were clear and objective, and he could finally understand that his rebirth would take more than a few weeks worth of sucking up to his classmates. It would be slow and arduous, and he would probably have more than a few lapses into his less than commendable habits. He had to find a way to prove himself, to show that he really was trying.

Then, of course, there was the assignment. He would suffer death or worse if he failed the Dark Lord, and bitterly he wished he'd never chosen to receive the Mark. He wished none of the bad things in his life had happened, that he could go through school and get a job at the Ministry and never know any pain. He wished he wasn't such an ass to people who really didn't deserve it. He had such a nostalgic and hopeless sense of loss that Draco felt he would like nothing more than to step outside his skin, allowing his body to continue its self-destruction and keeping his mind out of it.

His thoughts and wishes were futile, though, and he knew it. It's impossible to will the past away, however long one keeps at it. There is always a ghost left that you've forgotten to exorcize, one skeleton taking up space in your closet.

It was with the dismal, cynical image of Harry Potter's skeleton crowded into his bedroom closet that Draco finally fell asleep.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

"Malfoy, stay a moment," McGonagall requested after a particularly confusing class period. "I need to have a word with you."

A now-familiar sense of foreboding filled like lead in Draco's stomach. Nevertheless, he approached McGonagall's desk and evenly asked, "Yes, Professor?"

She eyed Draco with an expression most grave and informed him, "Your marks are slipping, Mr. Malfoy. You barely passed the last practical exam. Given the career path you've chosen for yourself, you really cannot afford to fail this class."

"How do you know about my career choice? That's between Professor Snape and me," Draco asked, partially curious and partially avoiding the rest of the discussion.

"While you are in Professor Snape's house, Malfoy, I find it well within my right to know what students in my classes plan to do with their lives." Her tone made it perfectly clear that she had no desire to discuss it further. "Now, as I was saying, you are struggling in a class that was once a stronger subject for you. This can only lead me to two conclusions. Either you're not studying, or the subject matter has become too difficult for you. Perhaps both."

The leaden foreboding crept up to his throat. Draco had a very bad feeling that he knew exactly what she wanted to do to remedy his situation.

"I'm going to assign you a tutor," she announced.

Draco's very bad feeling was correct. Damn it, he couldn't have a tutor! And yet, a part of him hoped for the opportunity to spend time with someone who wasn't Pansy, Crabbe, or Goyle. He wondered who it would be, and voiced his curiosity. "Have you got anyone in mind?"

"Several students come to mind, actually. When I inform them of their position, I'll have them contact you." McGonagall gave him a stern, severe glare. "I do not want to have this conversation again, Malfoy."

Neither did he. "Of course not, Professor."

"That will be all, Malfoy. Get to your next class."


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter Six_

Transfiguration, Draco decided, was best studied in the library. Studying in the common room was almost impossible as the holidays drew near, and he couldn't stand to spend any more time holed up in the dormitory. Usually the library was next-to-empty, and whatever resources Draco might need were immediately available to him. And so, every night after McGonagall's promise of a tutor, Draco had gathered his things and gone done to the library. He found that he was, indeed, very behind, having to backtrack nearly to the beginning of term to see where he had last actually learned anything. Still, he managed to make up several weeks worth of information in three long study sessions. Draco considered showing his progress to McGonagall and asking her to call off the tutor, but he wasn't sure if she knew how behind he really was and he didn't want to push his luck, which lately semed to be nonexistent.

Whatever shred of aforementioned luck he had left slipped away as Blaise Zabini took a seat across from him. Zabini said nothing, but tapped his foot repeatedly against the marble floor. The sound quickly became an annoyance.

In the interests of his studies and his desire to be a better person, Draco refrained from snapping at him. After glancing up in acknowledgment that Zabini was there, Draco returned to his textbook and devoutly tried to get the words to seep in.

_Inter-species Transfiguration begins with the selection of a beginning animal_, Draco read, veritably gritting his teeth against the distraction. _One must choose carefully - _

Tap, tap, tap, tap. The sound dug into Draco's skull and reverberated. He couldn't stand it anymore. "Would you stop doing that?" he finally requested, though his tone made it clear that this was not a request.

Zabini stopped tapping and sat silently. He seemed very faintly anxious about something, though Draco couldn't tell what it was. "Did you want something, Zabini?" Draco asked.

"Are you studying for Transfigurations?" Zabini asked. His voice was dry and bare of emotion.

Draco thought that would have been made rather obvious by the textbook in his hand. He therefore chose to ignore the question. "What is it, Zabini? I am a little busy, you know. No time for chit-chat."

"I don't want to chit-chat," Zabini spat contemptuously. "McGonagall wants me to tutor you." He resumed tapping his foot, much to Draco's dismay. "Is there anything you need help with?"

"No," Draco astutely replied, even though he was having trouble understanding the significance in the animal chosen. Pretending that Zabini wasn't there and didn't exist allowed him to get through the paragraph explaining species selection, after reading it three or four times. But a very special brand of haughty annoyance was seeping into his brain and filling his head with contemptuous and spiteful thoughts. They weren't abated when Zabini opened his mouth.

"Are you sure you don't need help?"

If looks could kill, then Draco's assignment from the Dark Lord would have been made significantly easier. At the moment, however, he was attempting occular murder on the tall boy sitting across from him. "I'm fine," he icily insisted. "You really don't need to be here."

Draco had to give Zabini credit. He was matching his glare with equal intensity. "McGonagall insisted that I help you pass her class. Trust me, Malfoy, I tried to get out of it."

While Zabini's remark had pricked his pride, Draco ignored it and asked a rather shameless question. "Wasn't there anyone else who could've done it? What's so special about you?" He tried to make his peading a remark against Zabini's ability.

"Apparently, she chose me because we're in the same house and she thought we would get along better than, say, you and Potter. Or you and Granger. They're really the only other options."

The idea of being tutored by Granger was utterly repulsive, but Draco found himself vaguely disappointed that McGonagall hadn't chosen Potter. At this point, though, anyone would've been better than Zabini. Draco decided not to comment further, but did his best to return to his studies.

_When beginning Inter-species Transfiguration, chose a creature that you are comfortable with. Your knowledge of the creature's systems and functions should be as extensive as possible to ensure the least harm will come to it, should something go wrong._

Draco tried to think of an animal he knew anything about, but the only thing that came to mind was an owl, and he had no idea what he would turn an owl into. He was barely sure that he could even use an owl. Perhaps he did need some help. The problem was, he really didn't wnat the help to come from Zabini. "How useful do you think you can be to me?" Draco asked, trying to keep his voice aloof and cold. This was degrading enough as it was; he wasn't going to beg for Zabini's help on top of it.

Zabini gained eye contact with Draco and held it, challenging him and almost penetrating his defenses. Draco wondered where he'd learned to do that. He, of course, was a talented Occlumens. The skill afforded him some benefits, one of which was the depth and pierce of his gaze. He matched Zabini, and overpowered him. Zabini broke away and turned his eyes to the floor. "Malfoy, do you need my help or not? I could probably get McGonagall to assign you Potter if you'd rather have him." There was a sneer and a hardness in his voice that compensated for his downcast eyes.

While Draco had won the staredown, he had really lost another, more important battle. He was going to have to ask Zabini to help him. He made a quick decision not to make an ass of himself and mutter it under his breath, or lose power over Zabini by using the word "please." Although, no matter how he tried to work it out in his head, there didn't seem to be a dignified way to beg. As he mentally wrestled with one discarded idea after another, it struck him to just tell a simple truth and see what came of it. "I'm going to need help," he admitted.

"Do you want me to go fetch Potter, then? Or would you rather have Granger?" Zabini was gloating. Draco hated him for it.

"Why would I want you to do that?" Draco snapped, using the power of his sneer and his tone to show who really had control over the situation. "I haven't once mentioned their names, you did. Do you find yourself unqualified to tutor me?"

Zabini's face hardened into a brutally neutral mask, but he couldn't keep the anger out of his eyes. "I'm qualified," he assured Draco.

"Good. Then let's get started." Draco was quite proud of himself. But then again, he'd always been good at turning the tables.

"Started on what? I still don't know what you need help with," Zabini reminded Draco as he scooted his chair closer to the table.

"Everything" was the word that popped into Draco's head and settled itself in his throat, but he didn't voice it. "Things," he stated vaguely. Justifying his answer, he clarified, "Things like Inter-species Transfiguration."

Zabini proved to be a good teacher. Draco was surprised. His confusion about species selection was cleared up quickly, and he even found that he had a firm grasp on it. Zabini seemed to have a zest for Tranfiguration that Draco had never experienced in any class. In fact, Draco had never been as zealous or knowledgable about anything as Zabini was about Transfiguration. The obvious pleasure and enjoyment he got from it was so strong that it transferred a bit from teacher to student. Several hours passed as Draco caught up on his studies. He barely noticed the passing of time until he felt a yawn welling in his chest.

"It's getting late," Zabini noted, turning a page with his dark, strong hand. Sleepily, Draco noted that he had nice hands. The fingers were broad but not knobby, and Zabini kept his nails short and clean.

Shaking his head, Draco slammed the book shut. Why in the hell was he looking at Zabini's hands? Utterly bewildering, and a little disgusting. Struggling to change his train of thought, Draco replied, "Yes, it is. We should go to bed." He stood and began clearing the table of his books and parchment. "How are you so good at Transfiguration?" he asked, trying to make conversation. He wasn't really paying him a compliment. Zabini obviously knew that he had skill in the subject.

"It's something I've always been interested in," Zabini explained. "I love the idea that what you see can be manipulated, and deceived." He looked Draco squarely in the eye. "Sometimes things aren't what they seem."

Zabini seemed to be trying to convey some sort of message. His gaze didn't hold any of its previous contempt, but instead seemed to contain a different sort of challenge. Draco couldn't identify it, but he was glad for the change. It made his attempt at friendship a lot easier.

There was, however, the matter of how to respond to his remark. Draco wasn't even sure what Zabini had meant by it, let alone what to say in regard to it. He refused to make an ass of himself, but he didn't want to further alienate Zabini by not saying anything at all. After careful deliberation of how to proceed, Draco ventured, "I suppose so." This seemed to be the road of least resistence to him; slight concession was the only avenue that wouldn't lead to Draco being made a fool of. He gathered the rest of his things and left the library, not waiting for Zabini. Draco was confused, on several levels. He had no idea why Zabini had suddenly decided to be sincere and drop his haughtiness, nor did he understand Zabini's remark. With his usual single-minded focus, he ran over the words in his mind, remembering the inflictions and vocal emphasis of syllables. He tried to recall which word had been the weight of the sentence. _Things_ aren't what they seem. Things _aren't_ what they seem. He couldn't get it to make sense in his head. Walking briskly and absorbed in his thoughts, he soon arrived at the Slytherin common room. The urge to curl up under a blanket was rather consuming.

Draco hadn't waited for Zabini, and Zabini hadn't tried to catch up. 


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter Seven_

He didn't wake up until the mid-morning. Usually, he was awake by seven and prepared to face his day a quarter of an hour later. Consequently, Draco's late return to consciousness caused in him an overwhelming sensation of panic, followed by a frenzy to get to what remained of his classes.

It wasn't until he was nearly completely dressed and in the process of pulling at his shoelaces that Draco realized that today was Saturday, and his frantic attempts to make it to class had been utterly wasted. The realization brought him a bit of sardonic relief, though he had no idea what he was going to do for the rest of the day. This was the first Saturday in a long time that he had completely free. His plans for his assignment had finally been set in motion, and would hopefully be carried out before the end of the day. In fact, his supplies would be arriving in Hogsmeade sometime within the day. Vaguely, he wondered why he'd chosen this day for the necessaries to come in.

Draco must not have been fully awake yet, because a split-second after his confusion about the date he remembered the scheduled Hogsmeade visit for students that was supposed to take place in less than an hour. Casting a glance at Crabbe and Goyle's large, unmoving masses, Draco was rather certain that they wouldn't make it to the day trip. Despite himself, Draco was actually rather relieved by that. He would have to get moving, though, if he was going to make it. Carefully shutting the door behind him so the oafs wouldn't waken, he left the dormitory and headed for the gates.

Several students were milling about, waiting for the carriages, and Filch was prowling the students, making sure they had the proper authority to take the trip. After shooting a glance in Draco's direction and receiving a rather cold stare in return, Filch made no move towards him and chose instead to badger a trio of Hufflepuff third-year girls who had just wandered down the path. Draco considered that to be a wise course of action. While the caretaker had intimidated some of his classmates, and even continued to in their sixth year, he'd never been evenly mildly concerned about Filch, and now he had much bigger issues to sort out.

He paced the cobblestone path with the intensity of a caged tiger, his mind spinning all the various ways he could be caught for what he was doing. And thinking about how he could be caught made him think of how he would be punished, not only by the staff but by the Order and by Voldemort and even possibly by Bellatrix or Snape.

This line of thought was something entirely new to him. While he'd thrown himself into finding a way to accomplish his task, the aftermath of his success had never really been a factor. Maybe that was because he'd never really expected to succeed.

It was on this somber note that the carriages pulled up, drawn elegantly by absolutely nothing. While Draco had been violently searching the corridors of his mind, a great number of students had arrived and Filch was kept exceedingly busy by their presence. Several of them (mostly younger students who didn't know better) were watching his preoccupation intently and whispering behind their hands in what he believed to be regards to his behavior. They received his fiercest sneer, made more powerful by the dangerous path his thoughts had taken him down.

Twice in his schooling at Hogwarts, he'd gotten a private carriage to Hosgmeade when Crabbe and Goyle had overslept. Today would not be such a day. Draco had a very appealing choice between Colin Creevey, reluctantly accompanied by Luna Lovegood, and Zabini's train. The resolution to sit with Zabini wasn't as strong as he would have wished, but he managed to walk with purpose to the open carriage door, politely and forcefully request a seat within, and settle himself before really waiting for a response.

"I'm surprised you came, Malfoy," Zabini said quietly. He seemed almost withdrawn, a complete and utter mystery to Draco. They had actually begun to be a bit chummy the previous evening.

Draco waited for the rest of the quip but it wasn't forthcoming. He set his teeth and prepared himself for the humiliation of requesting an explanation. "Why would you be surprised, Zabini?"

With a touch of a smirk, Zabini replied, "I figured you would be studying diligently for the test we have Monday. God knows you could use it." The last of this had been drawled with such contempt that Draco could scarcely believe there had ever been a beginning of friendship between them. But his companion's scornful behavior was counteracted by the slight grin that creased his face.

"Isn't it your job to see to it that I pass?" Draco shot, wishing he had a better retort but unable to produce anything in the appropriate time frame of a comeback.

"No, I believe that's your job." Zabini's reply was immediate and filled with his familiar haughty tone. But his eyes were more difficult for him to control, apparently, because Draco could see a glimmer of enjoyment in the dark-brown irises.

Quite taken aback by the difference in what Zabini said and conveyed with his body language, Draco eventually realized that the other boy was joking with him. The realization left him completely incapable of saying anything witty or even scathing whatsoever. He felt quite frustrated with himself. Apparently, he wasn't able to be rude if it also meant that he was being nice, which gave him something else to be frustrated about. He'd devoted far too much attention to befriending Zabini to ruin it in such a simple manner. "If it's my job, then why are you even tutoring me?" he was eventually able to say, but so much silence had passed from Zabini's last retort to Draco's reply that it seemed unconnected.

A slight chuckle escaped Zabini's throat, and he turned his face away from Draco's. "What happened to your cronies?" he asked, a casual tone in his voice. "I didn't think you went anywhere without them."

This line of conversation wasn't really something Draco wanted to talk about. He tried to discourage it with a sneer. "I go plenty of places without them. They couldn't even begin to understand the simplest of my classes." Draco detected a note of pride in himself as he said this, and wondered why in the hell he was proud of being smarter than Crabbe and Goyle. It wasn't like that exactly took a lot of effort.

Zabini grinned a little, showing his brilliantly white teeth. He leaned against the side of the carriage, throwing an arm over the back of the seat. "You look uncomfortable, Malfoy," he noted.

"You look like a bloody Gryffindor, Zabini," Draco shot back, mentally wincing at his ire. What had happened to his longing for Zabini's friendship? He would never earn it if he didn't stop insulting him. Strangely, Draco really didn't care all too much anymore. The impending completion of his assignment seemed a bit more important all of sudden than whether or not Blaise Zabini liked him. Still, he needed something, anything, to take his mind off of his fate. For once, Zabini seemed willing to provide him with the distraction. Draco wondered vaguely if that was because Zabini thought he was a hindrance to Draco's thought process.

At Draco's comment, Zabini seemed like he was going to explode with laughter. "Gryffindors never allow themselves to relax. They aren't intelligent enough to do things the easy way." Regaining composure, he continued, "Slytherins, on the other hand, always do things in the most efficient way possible. We get the chance to put our feet up." As he spoke, he did just that, setting his highly polished black shoes on the soft, red velvet of the carriage cushion.

Draco's reaction was one of nearly audible disgust. Putting his feet on the furniture! It was the sort of thing Narcissa would have hated and forbid in her home. It was the sort of thing he had never been allowed to do. And, if he was quite honest with himself, it was the sort of thing he'd always wanted to do.

Zabini sighed. "Do you ever relax, Draco?"

Zabini's question had made Draco stiffen. It seemed like a sick twist of fate that a query on his relaxation caused him to do the exact opposite. "Frequently, thanks," Draco snapped, moving his right foot ever-so-slightly in an attempt to make himself look more comfortable. This was not at all going the way he'd hoped. Zabini was getting the upper hand. Draco was still distracted by his imminent doom. And, to make matters worse, moving his foot even that insignificant distance had made him significantly more uncomfortable.

Whether Zabini had noticed Draco's slight change in position or whether he had noticed the stiffness in his posture wasn't really clear, but whatever he had noticed made him grin just a little bit wider. "Prove it," he challenged, stretching himself just a little bit more.

A very large, swelling anger welled in Draco's chest. He literally had to bite it down to keep himself from shouting at Zabini. Struggling for control of his emotions, he spat, "What the hell do you mean, 'prove it'?"

"I mean, relax. Prove that you can. You like a challenge, right? Try something hard." Zabini jiggled his foot, making it bounce against the cushion and produce a dull, repetitive thud. "I've never seen you relaxed, personally, except for a little last night. Very little."

Draco glowered, mentally cringing at the repetitive sound. "How was I relaxed last night?" he asked, counter-challenging Zabini.

He tapped his foot and grinned a bit. Draco hated the smug look on his face. Who was Blaise Zabini to treat Draco Malfoy like an inferior? Zabini should be begging for his company.

Yet even as angry as he was, Draco knew that if Zabini had begged or even asked him for his friendship Draco wouldn't have given it to him. The fact that he could raise Draco's ire so highly without trying commanded his respect, and Draco would have been able to recognize that if he hadn't been so damn mad that Zabini was treating him like a child.

What Zabini replied with both incited Draco further and made him want to laugh. "Your shoulders slumped," he said evenly, without a trace of sarcasm or jest. "I've never seen your shoulders slump before."

"You keep saying you've never seen me relax before, but I've barely even spoken to you since first year. How can you see me do something if you've never spoken to me?" The idea hit Draco suddenly and was out of his mouth before he could stop himself, but he realized as he was saying it that he truly wanted to know.

"I'm not watching you, Malfoy, if that's what you're thinking," Zabini said cooly. "I don't know if you knew this or not, but you are a rather public person. Everyone knows the prince of Slytherin." He stopped tapping his foot and chuckled. "Malfoy, stop looking at me like you're going to bite my head off."

Draco didn't think he was doing any such thing but he willed himself to wrench the tension out of his face. "I had no idea I was so popular," he drawled sarcastically, finding himself once again above Zabini and able to release his clenched muscles from their awkward positioning. Absently, he hooked his arm over the back of the cushion. "Tell me, am I frequently referred to as the prince of Slytherin? I've never really heard the title very often to my face. Is it a running joke among those who want to be my friend?" Draco hated the title. Hated it. There wasn't much he disliked more than hearing it. Quite frankly, it disgusted him. But it hadn't always done so. At one time, not as long ago as he wished, it had been a source of pride in him. He shuddered (inwardly) at the thought.

Zabini's face, for the first time in the entire carriage ride, become somber in its every aspect, from his eyes to his lips. "Yes, you are. And yes, it is." Even his tone had taken on a melancholy note.

Draco no longer had any desire to speak to Zabini. He turned his face away from him and tried to glimpse the passing scenery through the small part in the curtain. From the corner of his eye, however, he could see that Zabini was looking at him, sometimes with an almost appraising quality, and sometimes as though he was worried or concerned. It was annoying, surely, but it was far better than the uneasy conversation that had reigned earlier.

The coach slowed as they approached the Hogsmeade stop. A sudden idea seized Draco, and as before he couldn't seem to keep it in his head. "Zabini, are you a tosser or something?"

Zabini seemed surprised, and then considerate. It was a while before he replied, "Or something, I suppose."

Draco looked at Zabini in a new and more complicated light. He had expected yes or no, or a request for him to mind his own business. But he hadn't expected what Zabini had said. Still, if fit in such an obvious and singular way that Draco was surprised that he hadn't realized it before. "Or something," the recognition of the unknown and unexplored, was the stuff of Draco's existence. He had been "or something" for years. "Okay," he said, barely aware that he was speaking, "that works."


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter Eight_

He wasn't really sure of how it happened, but something in his flawless plan went horribly awry. Well, maybe not horribly; the results of the mistake were pleasing in a guilty sort of way, but definitely not reaching the end result of what he'd been orchestrating. Instead of the necklace being given to Dumbledore and causing his immediate demise, Katie Bell got ahold of it and had an unusual half-reaction to its dark magic. Madam Rosmerta, on the other hand, seemed no worse for the wear, but Bell was spirited away immediately for further medicinal attention.

The only word Draco could use to describe the odd preceedings and the collapse of his plan was, "Dammit," and he made frequent use of it.

In another twist of fate and change in expected events, Zabini had followed Draco out of the carriage and hadn't left him once since. What made it even more unusual was that Draco didn't mind in the least. Having Zabini around was far more intellectually stimulating than being with Crabbe and Goyle, and far less annoying than Pansy's company. In fact, in certain moments it was almost pleasureable.

So, naturally, having been in Draco's company for several hours and seen the change in his mood and attitude, Zabini became a little bit suspicious. His concern was made more obvious as Draco continued to mutter under his breath, punctuating his ramblings occasionally with the aforementioned descriptive interjection.

"He's old enough, why won't he just die already?" Draco spat irritably, apparently a tad too loud, because Zabini heard him.

"Who are you wishing death on now, Malfoy?" he joked, but his tone couldn't fully hide a tremor of concern. Draco really couldn't blame him for it; his behavior was erratic at best in the aftermath of his ruined scheme.

He weighed the consequences of telling Zabini about his assignment. The other Slytherin was in the pre-stages of taking the Mark, and his loyalties were definitely with the Dark Lord. His loyalty to Draco, however, was much fuzzier. There was no way to be sure that Zabini would keep it to himself if he knew. Only his parents, Bellatrix, Pansy, and, of course, the Dark Lord were privy to the damning information. Crabbe and Goyle knew that Draco had received an assignment but were completely in the dark about its entailments. It had been a stretch and took some heavy rationalization to tell Pansy about it, and Draco fully trusted her. Yet here he was, debating whether or not to tell someone he hadn't even taken seriously until several days before. He blamed it on the stress of his recent failure, but still couldn't shake the desire to tell Zabini. Draco had the distinct feeling that if it had been anyone else, he wouldn't have even considered telling them, but that didn't explain iwhy/i it was Zabini who made him want to spill the contents of his life. Something about the other boy was simultaneously open and closed, making Draco want to tell him everything and reassuring him that he wouldn't tell anyone else.

Draco shook his head. This line of thinking would help him at all. At all. There was absolutely nothing to be gained by it. Why, then, couldn't he shake it away? "How much do you know about the Dark Lord?" Draco asked, steering Zabini into a secluded alley that featured no attractive tourist traps.

"How much do I _know_?" Zabini asked incredulously, his slight change in posture suggesting that he was offended. "I doubt that there are many students in Hogwarts who know more about him than I do."

Draco sighed, though if it was from exasperation or relief he couldn't tell. Perhaps it was a mixture of both. "Well, I can assure you that I am one of the few who knows more than you." Glancing around furtively, seeing absolutely no other witches or wizards within eye or earshot, Draco pulled the left sleeve of his robe up far enough for part of the Mark to be revealed. Showing the marr on his otherwise flawless skin to another human being seemed to take the burden of it away, seemed to make it more like a tatoo and less like a curse. "See what I mean?"

Zabini gazed at the small, revealed portion of the Mark in complete awe. "Is that. . .is that the Dark Mark?" he whispered, an almost reverent note to his voice.

Heavily, feeling his center of gravity pull towards the damnable Mark, Draco nodded. "Yes." He was feeling rather incapable of saying anything more intelligible, and didn't want to babble. So he kept his mouth shut.

"How long. . " Zabini trailed off, seemingly considering his choice of words. "How long have you had it?" This seemed to be the most pressing question to him. It was probably the one Draco would have asked first, too, if the situation had been reversed, but that didn't make him want to answer it any more. Still, he felt that he had no choice. He'd put this train wreck in motion, and now it was time for him to watch it veer off the tracks.

"Since July," he replied. Sensing the questions in Zabini, he tried to hedge them off as best as he could. "Yes, my father really is a Death Eater. Yes, I really am, too. Yes, I've been given assignments . . . well, one assignment . . . by the Dark Lord. Is there anything else you want to know?" Draco felt weary and drained of strength. He needed something to lean on, and chose the cleanest patch of the brick wall behind him he could, doing his best to look casual and cool.

The queerest light shone behind Zabini's dark eyes, sharpening the angles of his face. "Did you have anything to do with what happened to Bell today?"

Sagging against the wall, Draco felt a tinge of guilt welling in him as he remembered the tortured look in the Gryffindor's face. He didn't think he would be able to support himself for much longer, let alone entertain someone as demanding as Zabini. There was no way he would able to explain himself fully. "Yes. The entire thing was my fault." Draco wasn't and never had been a religious person, but he found himself praying to whatever being might exist in the hopes that Zabini would let it go and not ask any questions.

And, of course, his prayer wasn't answered. "How was it your fault?" Zabini seemed to truly want to know, showing an earnestness that Draco usually found unbecoming in a Slytherin but that strangely fit Zabini as well as "or something" had.

Draco tried, really tried, to focus on what Zabini had just said, but he found himself instead thinking about the open quality of his face, and the inquisitive light in his deep chocolate eyes. Apparently, the stress that had sapped him of his strength had also sapped him of his sanity, because he couldn't shake the image of Zabini's full lips, pursed in impatience as he waited for a response. And he couldn't help but chuckle to notice that he was once again tapping his toe against the pavement. What made Blaise Zabini attractive? It wasn't his insatiable appetite for answers and it definitely wasn't his smug attitude. It certainly wasn't his annoying nervous habits. Draco could only think of one way to find out why he was so drawn to him, and though the mere thought of it made him cringe, he knew he had to do it. How he knew, however, was completely unclear to him. But he knew.

Zabini had certainly expected an answer to his loaded question. What he got instead was Draco's lips, uncertain and almost frightened, brushing against his. What he gave back was an answer to Draco's questing mouth, and a muttered expletive. "What the hell was that?" he said incredulously, sounding more than a little angry. "Damn it, Draco, if you're going to do something like that, you could at least warn me."

"I'll be sure to do that next time," Draco drawled, doing his best to appear irritated and nonchalant. Truthfully, Zabini's reaction had almost hurt him and had definitely confused him. He also had the sneaky suspicion that Zabini was somehow teasing him, but Draco couldn't find any way to justify his feeling other than wishful thinking, and even at this point he refused to believe that he wished anything from Zabini.

But his unwilling reaction to Zabini's response put even Draco's considerable skills of denial and self deprivation to the test. "What makes you think there'll be a next time, Malfoy?" At Zabini's biting words, Draco's stomach filled with lead as it had recently grown so accustomed to doing and his heart seemed to sink further in his chest than it should have. "Do you honestly think I'm going to let you kiss me like that again?"

Draco didn't trust himself to respond. His lips felt dry and chapped, and he wondered if it was the unpleasant texture that had caused Zabini's diminished enthusiasm. He wondered if he'd been too timid; if he should have been more confident with the unexpected kiss.

"Seriously, Draco. If you do that again, I want you to mean it."

These words were the last thing Draco could recall with any clarity for quite some time. Somehow, he found himself moving towards the tall, dark Slytherin, closer and closer, so close that he could feel the warmth of his breath on his face. And then somehow his mouth found its way to Zabini's and lost its fear. His brain forgot to remind him that he was kissing another boy. His tongue forgot to be concerned that it was sweeping the inside of Blaise Zabini's mouth. His hands, however, were perfectly aware of whose body they were skimming. There was absolutely no way to forget. The hard planes of Zabini's body were so different, even from just the most minimal contact through several layers of clothing, from Pansy's soft curves that Draco was forcefully reminded with every touch of the identity of the person he was with. And the sickest thing was, he didn't care. He didn't care in the slightest. He was lost in the feel and the taste and the heat of Zabini, completely unconcerned and unaware of the barriers he was breaking, of the places he would never be able to go again. All he knew was that this felt, if not right, then at least so damn good that he didn't want to end it just because of a few simple facts that would have previously bothered him.

He slid his hands inside the opening of Zabini's robes at the neckline, wanting to feel skin, tired of the cloth that separated them. But all that was there when he finally managed to pry enough buttons to feel anything was Zabini's shirt, a much less removable object.

Zabini shivered. Without his robes completely covering him, he was probably freezing in the frigid air. "Draco, can we go somewhere? Somewhere with heat, preferrably. Or did you not plan to continue this?" Once again, Zabini was issuing a challenge, only this time Draco was more than willing to take him up on it.

"Follow me," Draco issued, pulling away from Zabini and walking briskly out of the alley, wincing at the sting of the wind in the main street. The alley had been sheltered from most of the winter effects the rest of Hogsmeade was suffering. Zabini emerged from the shadowed street, his robes still hanging open almost to his waist. "For God's sake, Zabini, cover yourself," Draco spat, wondering how he could he could be so exasperated and yet so entertained simultaneously.

The grin on Zabini's face as he slowly buttoned his robes had a similar pleasing-yet-annoying effect on Draco. He wanted to tell him to hurry up and slow down at the same time. Mostly, however, he wanted to shake some sense into the boy. They were in broad daylight, with villagers and students at every turn. This was no time to be coy. Draco's reputation (in reflection he hated how much he based on his reputation) was at stake. If anyone knew what they had just done, what they were going to do, he would be ruined. Utterly ruined. Not surprisingly, the thought of his social demise was a bit of turn-off.

His robes finally back in proper order, Zabini quickly stole up to Draco with his smug grin still firmly in place. "Wipe that look off your face, Malfoy," he said casually, the grin widening ever-so-slightly.

"What look?" Draco demanded, furrowing his brows. "I don't have any sort of look on my face." Even to himself, that sounded rather stupid, but it made Zabini laugh.

"That look that says you're thinking about all the ways this could go wrong. Don't think. Relax. Enjoy yourself. It's not a crime." With a chuckle, he added, "I mean, what's the worst that could happen? Most of your set decided to opt out of this visit, for whatever reason. We don't have to go anywhere we would be recognized. We don't have to do anything you don't want to do. And if we think it's worth it, we'll do it again. If not, we'll let it go, no hard feelings. That's all that's going to happen, Draco. It's not going to be some life-altering experience. You're not going to fall in love. You're just going to have fun."

Zabini's carefree attitude threw Draco into an incredulous stupor. How could he be so casual about this? Draco had experience with casual sex, of course, but not with a boy. In a numb sort of panic, Draco realized that he didn't have experience of any sort when it came to sex with another boy. He tried to think of ways that it was the same, and ways that it would be different. He was fairly certain they would need some sort of lubricant, and that one of them would have to . . .

His reluctance to even think about it probably wasn't a good sign. "What happens, Zabini, if it _is_ life-altering? I doubt I'd fall in love with you, but let's say that it happened. What then?" He was whining. He had to stop. He couldn't stop. "And how the hell do you know I'm going to have fun?"

Zabini gripped Draco's forearms with his strong fingers, and despite the ravages of his mind he found comfort in the contact. "Draco, shut up. Take us somewhere where we won't be seen by any of your precious Slytherin buddies, and everything will be fine."

Draco had just one more thing to say before he could comply with Zabini's request. "Do you promise?" God, he sounded like a little kid. A whiny little kid being force-fed spinach and lied to about its similarity to ice cream.

Releasing Draco's arm and giving him a firm, manly pat on the back, Zabini replied, "No."


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter Nine_

**_Warning: This chapter contains very mature themes concering male/male relations, otherwise known as SLASH! Yes, finally, the slash is here. But don't read it if you're not of age. If you continue on past this point, the author cannot be held responsible for your mental scars or for how unbearably hot the room seems to be getting._**

It was a good thing that Draco had a retentive memory. As far back as third year, Snape had told him the true use for the Shrieking Shack. In retrospection, he wished that Snape would have told him before he made an ass of himself with Potter and the "ghosts." But at least he could use it now, and he did. Leading Zabini into the back entrance, he felt a little bit of despair at the complete disrepair of the place. The entire house smelled of mold spores, and a thick coat of dust coated every piece of broken furniture. The fireplace looked like it had never been used, but it seemed to be in working order. When he thought about it, it made sense that no one would have used the hearth. Werewolves seldom have need for the cozy orange glow and cheery warmth that a good fire can give off.

Zabini gazed around in apparent dismay. "Where the hell did you take us, Draco?" he asked, eyeing a gnawed tableleg with suspicion and alarm.

"We're in the Shrieking Shack, so called because of the noise that came from it every month. The villagers in Hosgmeade believed the Shack was haunted by very violent ghosts. Even now, years after any suspicious activity involving the Shack, it's considered one of the most haunted locations in the Wizarding world," Draco explained, feeling vaguely like Binns.

Kicking a fractured chair out of his way, Zabini nodded. "Uh-huh. But that doesn't explain why we're here."

Draco was annoyed. Again. He wondered, not for the first time, how Zabini could have that affect on him without even trying. "The villagers don't come here. It's secluded. We can do . . . anything we want." He chanced a glance at Zabini's face. He could feel in his own face an unusual amount of heat, and it struck him that he was possibly blushing. The embarrassment of it made him blush even more. Luckily, Zabini wasn't looking at him. He was looking at the unused fireplace.

"It's not warm in here," he grumbled, but it seemed to be a teasing grumble. Nevertheless, it didn't do much for Draco's heightening annoyance.

"Well, get a fire going. The grate works, it's just old." Draco felt like he was trying to coax a reluctant child into taking a bath.

Zabini ran his fingers over a tabletop and sneered in disgust at the dust on his fingertips. "It's dusty as hell in here." He wiped the dust on the sleeve of his robes. It struck Draco as such a mudblood thing to do that it took all he had to keep the sneer from creasing his lips.

"Zabini. Quit whining. You light a fire, use some of this furniture if you have to, and I'll clean up some of the dust. Okay?" Draco pulled out his wand and set about clearing the most problematic areas of their dusty burdens. When he looked up, Zabini hadn't moved at all. In fact, he was staring at Draco with a rather incredulous look in his eyes. "What?" Draco spat irritably.

Shrugging absently, Zabini turned his face away and starting picking up the pieces of the chair he'd been kicking around. "I've never seen you clean anything before," he explained. "Not as long as I've been living with you, anyway."

Draco sighed. "I don't, usually. But I didn't want to make you do it and I'm fairly handy with a cleaning spell. It's not like I'm doing it the muggle way." He turned away from Zabini and continued clearing the cobwebs.

When a firm hand snaked its way around his waist, he didn't jump outwardly. But his insides were writhing in anticipation and agony. How was he supposed to go about this? What was he supposed to do? Heat roiled in his stomach, sending ever-growing ripples of it lower and lower in his abdomen. With surprising strength, Zabini turned him around to face him. Draco's wand clattered to the floor. "What about the dust?" Draco asked, the words barely making it past his lips and unfiltered by his brain.

The grin playing at Zabini's lips was positively wolfish. "You cleared the sofa."

"And the heat?"

An amber flash of light that could be easily interpreted as lust flared in his eyes. "I daresay we'll be making enough of that to keep ourselves warm."

The roiling heat in Draco's abdomen sank lower and lower, and blood pounded in his groin. He wasn't really sure of how he did it, but he found a way to quickly shed Zabini of his clothes, finally able to run his hands over the taut skin of his chest, his arms, his stomach. "You feel like satin," he murmured, utterly and completely unaware of what he was saying. "Like rough satin."

Fumbling slightly at the buttons but quickly finding an efficient way to pop them all at once, Zabini de-robed Draco and the garment fell to the floor. There were, however, still a few layers of winter clothing separating Zabini's fingers from Draco's skin, and Draco got sick of waiting. He threw off his shirt and fussed at the catch on his pants, the task made more difficult by his growing erection. But just as his frustration and lust were unable to coincide any longer, the trousers decided to release him of his agony and he was able to free himself.

The moment his pants were kicked off and thrown to the side (sliding across a thick patch of dust, Draco noticed vaguely), Zabini took firm ownership of Draco's mouth, gripping his forearms in a way reminiscent of the way he'd held them earlier in Hogsmeade. He had a few inches on Draco and quite a bit of muscle, but by no means did Draco intend to let him rule over the proceedings. He fought back, using his tongue to break down Zabini's defenses and allowing him to gain some ground. Using a weapon that he considered second only to his voice, he pulled Zabini closer to him and bit his lip, hard but not hard enough to bleed. The moan that escaped the dark-skinned Slytherin's throat was all the encouragement he needed.

Draco was actually quite proud of himself for being able to focus on driving Zabini to the edge and keep himself from going over it at the same time. He ran his hands over Zabini's broad back, raking the more delicate skin with his nails. Zabini arched against him, pressing his groin to Draco's.

And that was enough to make Draco want to stop. For whatever reason, he hadn't expected to actually have to come in contact with Zabini's erection. It wasn't really something he felt comfortable with. It wasn't something he thought he wanted to do.

"_Malfoy_," Zabini grunted, seemingly unable to handle the distance Draco had just put between them. "What the hell is it?"

The thought that popped into Draco's head was, _You have a penis_, but he refused to let it escape his brain and leave his lips. "Nothing," he hastily replied, closing the gap and once again pulling Zabini close to him. "It's nothing."

"The hell it's nothing," Zabini groaned, putting a hand to his forehead in apparent despair. "You've never done this before, have you?"

Draco's pride positively bristled at Zabini's question. "Of course I've done this before. I just haven't done _this_ before."

The look on Zabini's face read purely of exasperation. He waved the hand that had previously been clutching his forehead in some unknown gesture. "This? This as in shag another guy? Or this as in foreplay? Either way, Draco, now would be an excellent time for you to learn."

"Shag another guy, you imbecile," Draco spat, unable to keep the contempt out of his voice. "Of course I've done foreplay before."

"Good." He lowered his mouth again and assaulted Draco's, allowing no room for Draco to interject, keeping him tight against him and unable to pull away. "Relax, Draco, or this won't be fun for either of us," he finally said as he released Draco's lips.

While he'd been kissing Draco, his free hand had wandered down to the lower regions of Draco's abdomen. "Say you want me to touch you," he said, a hint of ire and force in his voice.

"I'm not going to beg you for anything, Zabini," Draco replied, suppressing a shudder at the location of Zabini's hand. "I'm not going to ask for anything. If you're going to do it, do it. If not, don't." Draco's words, however, were a complete bluff. His reaction to merely the thought of what Zabini might do was too strong for him to be able to say that he didn't want him to do it.

With a scowl, Zabini snaked his hand down to Draco's erection and not only _touched_ it, but _squeezed_ it. His fingers ran the length of the shaft, making Draco's breath catch in his throat. Zabini took Draco's mouth again while his hand tempted and teased him. Draco felt quite like he was going insane. He couldn't focus on kissing Zabini properly, or even touching him, when the other boy was itouching/i him like that. He recalled the one time Pansy had tried to do what Zabini was doing, and he also recalled how dismally she'd failed at it. That was probably why they'd never done it again, and it was also when their relationship had started to tank.

Zabini, on the other hand, was having no problems whatsoever. He knew how and where to touch Draco to get the maximum response, and he obviously wasn't at all timid about touching another man's member. His tongue began to imitate the motion his hand was taking, driving Draco to the edge of control. He felt it building, felt the pre-come seeping, and knew what was going to happen. In a small way, he was surprised he'd lasted as long as he did. Zabini's style, his force and his confidence, his will to fight for control, was new and exciting (almost overly exciting) to someone who had never been with a commanding partner. Draco was someone who didn't think he would like a commanding partner.

But the intensity with which he came proved his assumptions completely false. He craved a commanding partner. And, judging by the now-crushing weight of Zabini's kiss and the furor of his hands on Draco's body, his commanding partner craved a commanding partner, as well.

Draco's qualm with touching Zabini suddenly seemed completely irrational. In fact, his fingers were iching to wrap themselves around the turgid organ, and he was filled with the desire to see Zabini melt as he had melted. It would be a sweet sort of payback. Grinning like a fiend, one hand splayed against Zabini's back, Draco firmly wrapped his other hand around Zabini, enjoying the sudden stiffness in Zabini's spine, enjoying even more the slight arch in his back as he tried to feel as much of Draco's hand as possible. "God, Draco. . ." he hissed, his tongue between his teeth. "You've seriously never done this before?"

Draco's grin widened, so much so that his teeth were revealed. Rarely did anything make him smile, and it was even more rare for him to smile so widely in another's company. Zabini, he noticed, would be his first for a lot of things. He decided that Zabini's question didn't require a verbal response, but rather a physical one. He applied the lightest pressure to his grip, and felt an extreme sense of pride and an intense wave of lust as Zabini arched even further against his hand. "You're a fucking cheater, Malfoy," Zabini grunted, beads of sweat dotting his brow and running in rivulets down his face.

Once again, Draco decided that verbal commentary was unnecessary, and ran his tongue across Zabini's jawline while his fingers found the most sensitive area of the shaft. He pressed just one finger against it, and Zabini's rather impressive frame nearly caved in on itself. He slumped and shook as the spasms of his orgasm rocked his body. "Fuck, Draco, fuck, Draco. . ." he repeated, the words becoming some sort of mantra to him. When it was over and he was able to recover, he backed away slightly from Draco and once again put a hand to his forehead. "Now, where in the hell did you learn to do that?"

"Do what, exactly?" Draco asked, wiping his own brow with the hand that had been gripping Zabini's back. He realized that his other hand was dismally sticky, and the mess felt uncomfortable. Reaching for his wand, he performed the same cleaning spell on it that he'd used to clear the cobwebs.

Zabini waved his hand. "What you just did. It was the work of a veteran, Draco. Don't lie to me."

A sneer crossed Draco's face as he wiped what wasn't easily removed by the spell on the upholstery of the ancient sofa. "The only penis I've touched besides yours, Zabini, is mine. And not as frequently as you might think. Let's just say I have natural talent."

"What else are you 'talented' at?" Zabini asked, and surprisingly there seemed to be a hint of lust hidden in his tone. Draco looked up, and sure enough, the now-familiar gleam was in the other boy's eyes.

But Draco didn't really want to do it again. Yes, it had been fun, a new, certainly pleasant experience, but the memory of Zabini's semen covering his hand and forearm was too fresh to make him want to do it again. In truth, he doubted his ability to do it again, not just because of the force of his recent orgasm, but because of the fluid he now knew would be far too involved. If he couldn't even handle semen, how would he handle lubricant? How would he be able to let Zabini enter him, or even enter Zabini himself? Draco shuddered, but it had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. "I don't really have a lot of talent for anything, Zabini," he said, shuffling around the room to find his discarded clothing and groaning in dismay at the state of his dust-covered trousers.

Zabini frowned, his brow furrowing. "What are you doing?"

Draco looked up at him, once again exasperated by his questions. How quickly he was able to go from lust to annoyance with this boy! "I'm getting dressed," he replied, gesturing to his clothes. "You should probably do the same. The light's fading, and we'll have to hurry to get back to the carriages."

"Draco, we've only been for about a half hour, an hour at most. Why the rush? We have some time." He moved towards Draco, the lust now utterly obvious in his dark eyes. "We don't have to hurry."

Pulling on his clothes, Draco turned away from Zabini and buttoned his robes. "I don't want to be late," he provided as a feeble excuse. Before he'd even said it, he knew how feeble it was. He sighed. "Look, you said that we didn't have to do this again. No hard feelings. I'm going to take you up on that." He straightened, looking Zabini in the eye. "It was fun. But it's not something I think I want to do again. Get dressed, I was serious about us missing the carriage."

Zabini was slow and meticulous about his redress, and Draco could have sworn it was on purpose. He made it a point to scowl at the boy to show his frustration.

They left the Shrieking Shack, and it wasn't until they were on their way back to Hogwarts that Draco realized he'd forgotten his watch.


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter Ten_

Draco's attempt at making friends had gone horribly, awfully awry. Not only was Zabini no longer speaking to him, but now he was attracted to men. And, to top it off, he no longer had his watch.

Going back to the Shrieking Shack was absolutely out of the question. Requesting someone to grab the watch for him was equally impossible. There was no plausible way that he could think of to reclaim his lost timepiece.

Not having a watch skewed Draco's sense of time so badly that he was nearly late to several classes for the first time in his life. He could no longer feel the minutes passing, plunging him into a state of confusion unrivaled by anything he'd ever felt before. His dreams were still troubled and full of Potter, except now there was an annoying ticking in the background. Draco had found two ways to interpret this new element; counting down the time he had remaining to complete the assignment, or reminiscing the love of his lost watch. Either way, it was driving him absolutely insane.

It was in this fog, covered in thoughts of Potter, time, and reclamation that Draco lived for several weeks following his "adventure" with Zabini. He chose to avoid the common room, the library, anywhere he could make a bigger ass of himself. Instead, his evenings were spent on his four-poster, with the curtains drawn around him and his materials spread out before him. On one such evening, as he studied the benefits of Wolfsbane to a werewolf (an assignment from Snape), a loud crack startled him from his reverie.

"Master Malfoy!" a high, squealing voice addressed him. "Dobby has it!"

Curious as to what "it" was, hoping in a hopeless sort of way that Dobby was talking about his watch, Draco dared to ask, "What are you talking about, Dobby?"

Pulling back the green silk curtain and smiling widely, Dobby clarified, "The information Draco Malfoy requested, sir! About Harry Potter!"

It took Draco a while to think back that far, and when the appropriate memory finally struck him he was awash with grief and longing. It had been so much simpler then, so much easier. He had believed it was still possible to succeed in his task. Zabini had never laid a finger on him. And even finding out about Lucius' fate hadn't struck quite the same chord in him that losing himself had. But what, exactly, had he asked Dobby for?

"_Find out if Potter has any . . . special friends_," his voice reverberated in his memory. Ah, yes. He had asked the poor house-elf to tail Potter's sex life. What a wretched request. And yet . . . Draco longed to know what information had been gathered. "Well, then?" he prompted, and Dobby brightened.

"Harry Potter sees no one, save his two closest friends. And Harry Potter does nothing . . . special with them!" The house-elf was practically bouncing on the balls of his multiple pairs of socks. "He is for Draco Malfoy, sir!"

Throwing himself at the brick wall, Dobby began bashing his head against it. Draco, mildly alarmed, pulled him towards the bed and turned him with only the slightest regard to courtesy. "Thank you, Draco Malfoy," Dobby murmured. "Dobby should not be telling Draco Malfoy anything Harry Potter says. Harry Potter is not Dobby's master, but Dobby thinks he is a great wizard. Dobby thinks Draco Malfoy is a great wizard. Dobby should respect privacies."

"What on earth are you trying to tell me, Dobby?" Draco asked incredulously. If it was anything close to what the elf seemed to be insinuating, he had to be horribly mistaken.

Dobby's eyes floated out of focus, staring into something Draco couldn't see. "Harry Potter . . . says things in his sleep. He says . . . " The rest of Dobby's face joined his large, green eyes in that faraway place, and he swayed where he stood. The lucid, almost trance-like state was curious to Draco.

Draco focused on Dobby's small, leathery face with much the same intensity as Dobby was focusing on his unseeable scene of interest. "What does he say, Dobby?" Draco asked, not entirely sure how the note of urgency had gotten in his voice.

"He says . . . Draco Malfoy's name . . . and he cries . . . and then he says it again . . . Dobby heard him profess love in Draco Malfoy's name, sir. Dobby heard it." As Dobby neared the end of his explanation, his trance seemed to dissipate. Draco wondered if he'd been seeing Potter, tossing and turning in his sleep, calling his name. He wondered if he had ever called Potter's name while he occupied Draco's dreams.

Dobby's expression was nearly fearful when Draco finally emerged from a mental reliving of his many dreams of Potter. He couldn't recall saying his name in any of his dreams, but then again, that didn't mean he hadn't . . .

"Draco Malfoy, sir?" Dobby said cautiously, the look of careful fear still painted across his wrinkled face.

"What?" Draco murmured, snapping back from his nightly escapades.

"Does Draco Malfoy want Harry Potter, sir?" The question was posed with much care, as though Dobby knew exactly how delicate the subject was. Then again, Draco realized, why wouldn't he know? Hadn't he been a Malfoy servant all of his life? Wasn't he fascinated with Potter? What two male Hogwarts students did he know better?

And yet, how could Draco possibly respond to that? Particularly when he had no idea how to answer, even to himself . . .

Draco had never quite been honest with himself, he realized. About anything. That, of course, didn't exactly make now an ideal time to start. Still, Dobby's small face was full of hope, caught at some pregnant moment of expectancy. It wasn't as to disappoint him as Draco hoped it would be.

There was a word on the tip of his tongue, he noticed, although not until he had opened his mouth to speak. That the word was there was not nearly as surprising as that he actually planned to voice it.

"Yes," he said, cautiously, carefully, feeling the syllable form in his mouth and hum in his throat.

Dobby leapt in a jolt of ecstatic glee, rubbing his small, knobbly hands together and grinning so wide his teeth seemed to be all there was to his face. "Dobby is most pleased to hear this, Draco Malfoy!" he cried. "Most pleased, yes he is!"

"Yes, well . . . " Draco muttered uncomfortably. He was nearly regretting his decision to admit his feelings. For some unfathomable reason, he had almost expected Dobby to be discreet, or even ashamed. Maybe that was the reaction he'd expected in himself. But somehow, Dobby's unbridled joy seemed . . . inappropriate to him. Wrong, he supposed. After all, this was Harry Potter.

Dobby braced himself in a fashion that usually meant he was about to Disapparate, and Draco jostled him to make him shift focus. "Where are you running off to, Dobby?" he asked warily.

"To tell Harry Potter!" Dobby replied, his tone clearly stating that it should have been obvious.

"Why is heaven's name would you go and do something like that?" Draco demanded, and again Dobby seemed exasperated by Draco's lack of perception.

"If Harry Potter wants Draco Malfoy, and Draco Malfoy wants Harry Potter, shouldn't Dobby help to serve? Give the masters what they want?"

Draco closed his eyes wearily, pursing his lips and feeling exhausted by the house-elf's logic. "Dobby, there are . . . certain things . . . that should be dealt with only by humans. The matter of 'wanting' another wizard is one of those things. Do you understand?" Dobby nodded tentatively. "Good. Now, why don't you get back to your castle duties? Ones that don't include telling Potter that I . . . want him?" The elf nodded a little more vigorously, and disappeared with a loud crack.

Draco slumped against his pillow, suddenly overtaken by a pounding headache. The cool linen was soothing, if only slightly. He had the surreal feeling that the last half hour of his life hadn't happened. Had he actually_ told_ a _house-elf_ that he wanted _Potter_? What in the _hell_ was wrong with him? Even if he did want Potter, it was an impossible idea. For one thing, Potter was a half-blood, barely a step above the mud . . . muggle-born filth that crawled the school. For another, he was male. It wasn't exactly acceptable for men to run around together. There were a multitude of reasons to stay as far away from Potter as possible, and yet he couldn't . . . Draco realized now as he laid motionless on his bed that he had never been able to. Even as a first-year, an ambitious and proud little Malfoy had offered him the hand of friendship. And he had been rejected, but even that hadn't stopped him in the pursuit . . .

It was quite simple, really. As a young boy, he had craved Potter's friendship, and when that had failed, he learned to crave his demise. As he grew, so did his desires. Now, as a nearly of-age wizard, he craved . . .

What? What did he want from Potter? Certainly not love, he knew that. Draco was unsure of his capabilities to feel that particular emotion. Did he lust after his body? Well, that's what his dreams were suggesting. Past experience lent itself to the theory that lust was enough to justify chasing him, but Draco wanted more. There ihad/i to be a better reason than that.

Draco thought about Potter's determination, his hero complex, all he had lost in the course of his life. He thought about his too-thin frame and his shock of black hair. His mind's eye conjured Potter's brilliantly green eyes, a gift from his muggle-born mother. A slip of his latest Potter-involved dream snuck into his mind and insinuated itself upon his thoughts.

It was simple, Draco realized. Very simple. He wanted everything.


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter Eleven_

Potter was ten feet across the library, and Draco was fast approaching. He hadn't seen Potter alone in God only knew how long, and his newly-awakened sensibilities saw this as his chance. His hands were shaking. Draco stuffed them in the pockets of his robes. His nerves were frayed, but underneath he felt an unfamiliar sense of peace.

Potter looked up at him, bewildered. A book was open on the table in front of him. "Malfoy," he greeted. Was there a hint of nervousness in the name, or had Draco imagined it? "What do you want?"

"You," Draco said, completely unaware of what he was saying, mortified when he realized what had come out of his mouth. But he chose to back it up. What choice did he really have? "I want you."

The look of utter confusion on Potter's face would have been hilarious if the situation were different. "Is this some kind of joke?" he asked, but his voice held a nearly imperceptible note of - what? happiness? Draco was positive he was imagining it. "What are you getting out of this?"

Draco laughed despondently, sounding even to himself crazed and harried. "I wish it were a joke, but even then it wouldn't be a terribly funny one, would it? No, I'm afraid I'm serious. I don't know what in the hell I'm going to get out of this. I think that part's up to you." Rambling, now. He couldn't stop. "I haven't been able to sleep in peace since summer. My life is absolutely upside down right now, and it has been for a while. Funny how that is, isn't it?" He laughed again, nervously. "And now I want Harry Potter, only to realize that _that's_ been the problem all along!" The laughter bubbled up inside him, spilling out in waves. _This is what insanity looks like_, he thought.

Potter's expression could only be described as alarmed. "Do you need to sit down?" he asked, concern coloring his tone. He stood up and fetched a chair, and Draco slumped into it. Once he was seated and no longer experiencing fits of inexplicable mirth, Potter sat across from him, steepling his hands and gazing at Draco intently. "Well, I'm glad you were the one who broke first, honestly, because I've been losing it, too," he said. There was a deliberation in his voice that suggested he was choosing his words carefully. "Since term started, I haven't had a full night's sleep without . . . well, I'm sure you know if you haven't been sleeping, either." Draco nodded. He knew, indeed. "I tried to ignore it, but when I did that, it only pushed harder . . . "

"We've been quite foolish," Draco noted, feeling the peacefulness embracing him further.

Potter nodded. "Yes, we have." He stared at Draco for a while with the same appraising quality Draco remembered in Zabini. "Draco, I want you," he said finally, the incredulous note in his voice making Draco wonder if he'd never said it before.

Draco reached across the table, placing his hand palm-up on its surface. Potter took the subtle hint, and clasped it in his own. Draco took him in: his nearly feminine eyes, his almost-gaunt cheekbones, the breadth in his shoulders, the pale glow to his skin. It was absolutely amazing to be able to feast his eyes without fear of judgment and persecution, to be unashamed of his fascination.

He looked up, and saw that Potter was doing exactly the same thing.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

They carried their affair wherever they could, taking great pains to stay as hidden as possible. Harry's Invisibility Cloak proved to be large enough for both of them to fit underneath it, and Draco had never been more pleased to discover that the castle had many romantic nooks that discreetly cloaked two lovers.

The passion Draco felt for Harry was something he had never known exisited. Every kiss sent his stomach fluttering, every touch surged him with lust.

"Do you ever wonder about what will happen?" Harry asked him once as they laid nearly fully unclothed in the Room of Requirement. They had found that it was one of the best places for them to sneak off to, as it adopted the guise of a large, comfortable bedroom, hung with green and gold, whenever they were in it. The bed was large, larger than any Draco had ever seen before. When they were lying on it, there seemed to be miles of gold cloth surrounding him.

Draco stroked Harry's head absently, feeling his soft, black hair run through his fingers. "About what will happen when?" he asked. He snuggled into Harry's body, a feat considering how angular and bony it was. Wrapping his legs around Harry's, he held him close to himself. "What are you worrying yourself over?"

Harry looked up at Draco, startling the Slytherin as he always did with his frank, expressive eyes. "We're not going to be able to hide ourselves forever."

Unable to resist, Draco took his mouth in a firm, passionate kiss. His hands roamed freely over Harry's body, coming to rest at his hips. "No, but that doesn't mean we should hold ourselves back in the meantime."

In the company of this boy, this man, Draco felt something he'd never felt in his life. Acceptance, freedom, affection. With Harry in his arms, Draco was home. There was something about him that spoke to Draco, that made him feel alive.

"I know that, Draco," Harry said softly, kissing Draco's cheek, his jaw, nibbling at his earlobe and running his hands over the length of his body. "I just can't help thinking of what's going to happen when we're found out."

Draco had a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach, and in other company he would have refrained from commenting on it. But with Harry, he couldn't stop himself from saying what was on his mind. "You're not worried that I'll leave you when we're discovered, are you?"

Harry paused a beat, staring into nothing, worrying Draco. Slowly, his gaze refocused, and he smiled. "Why would I be worried about something like that?"

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Time wore on, moving quickly and carrying them to the early strains of spring. Though Draco had wanted little else, they had yet to make love; Draco was realizing as he spent more time with Harry that his insecurities ran deep. Draco brought it up occasionally, softly requesting what he yearned for. Harry's response was always the same: "When we're ready."

This was best translated, at least to Draco's shrewd mind, as, "When I'm ready." He made the best effort he possibly could to wait until then, despite having absolutely no idea when that would be.

The first time Harry had made this excuse, Draco hadn't fully understood exactly what he meant by it. "When we're ready for what?" he asked, feeling needy and compulsive.

Apparently lacking an answer, Harry stumbled over a badly-delivered explanation. "Ready to . . . take that step, be with each other, you know, that sort of thing."

Draco was completely confused by what Harry was trying to tell him. "You don't think we're ready to be with each other, and yet you've been running around with me for several months now, covertly hiding in deserted classrooms and bathrooms, avoiding your multitude of friends?" Running his hands along Harry's back, pulling him close to himself, he asked, "What do I have to do to make you ready to be with me?" Even to himself, the note of pleading and greed was undeniable.

"Look, you clearly don't understand, Draco. I don't know about you, but I think that a certain level of commitment is important. I'm not just going to jump in bed with you." Harry's tone was indecipherable, as was his intended purpose in making such a remark.

Sighing with exasperation, Draco closed his eyes and tried to find reason within him. "Honestly, Harry, I don't know what in the hell you're talking about," he admitted. "You're not making much sense here." Opening his eyes, he took Harry's hands in a sweet, loving way that was utterly foreign to him. "But I want what you want," he told him, knowing in his heart that the words were true. "I want you to be happy. I care about you."

Harry leaned in toward him, his eyes shining and open. "I care about you, Draco," he said. "I don't want to be wrong about us, I don't want anything about us to be wrong. So I want to wait . . . until we're ready."

Their lips met tenderly, flaring Draco with passion. Harry groaned softly, pushing his fingers into Draco's hair and mussing it seductively. Breaking the kiss, feeling shivers running through him, Draco tried to avoid meeting Harry's eyes. He failed, and the completely unhidden passion and lust that he saw there made it hard not to take him then and there. _There's a bed in the corner_ . . . his mind conjured all the uses he could make of that bed, making him throb with need. He turned away from Harry and tried to compose himself. Several minutes passed before he felt able to turn around, and when he did, he smiled at the dark-haired boy in front of him. "When we're ready," he agreed.


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter Twelve_

_**Warning: This chapter contains VERY MATURE themes including male/male sexual intercourse. Please do not continue if you are underage. If you are underage and you continue beyond this warning the author is not responsible for your foolishness. However, if you are of age, the author highly recommends this chapter as it FINALLY has Draco/Harry sex. :D Enjoy!** _

With every day that passed, Draco felt a distance growing between himself and Harry. Always withdrawn, Harry receded into himself further as the days grew longer. Spring was upon them; the solitude and solemnity of winter was gone. As the snow melted, so did Draco's reserve. He realized how helplessly he loved Harry, how hopeless it was that his feelings could bear fruit. Harry had nearly stopped trying all together to avoid Draco's desire to make love to him - he stated quite simply during one of their rendevous that he was not terribly interested.

Surprisingly, this knowledge did not break Draco's heart as he had feared it would. Rather, his desires simply shifted. When he met Harry now, he thrilled at the feeling of their fingers intertwined, the weight of Harry leaning against him in the evening. The bed was gone from the Room of Requirement; a large, comfortable sofa had taken its place. Harry noted this, and seemed to know what it meant - in some ways, he relaxed, allowing Draco to touch him more freely now that he felt it would go no further. Yet he spoke less, he seemed to care less, he touched Draco himself much less frequently. Draco worried.

He had known, had always, always known, that having Harry as his own could not last in any sense of the word. He would be left with his memories, or he would die. These were his only options, and as the fork in his life approached at which he would choose which it was to be, a calm came over him. Being so relaxed in what could be the autumn of his life occasionally sent shivers of panic through him, but beneath the fear he felt that his life had come to its completeness. He had been able to call Harry Potter as his own, and Draco realized that very little else mattered.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Draco walked nonchalantly past Harry in the crowded Great Hall. He passed a note discreetly to him, a crumpled piece of parchment with two words scrawled on it.

"Meeting tonight?" it read, and there was a sense of urgency in the way the letters ran together, the smudge across the words from Draco's left hand and the crumple of the paper, done before the ink was fully dry. Draco was not usually so hasty, but the panic that iced his veins every now and again had seized him. He needed to see Harry as soon as possible, and didn't feel that he could trust their "when we can" arrangement. It was nearly May. The school year was ending, and there was no resolution as of yet in what would happen between them. It worried him.

Harry glanced up at him briefly, a risky move if they wished to remain undetected by the rest of Hogwarts. His eyes flashed with a glimmer of joy, and something else that Draco was far more used to seeing in his own mirror image than in Harry - a generous gleam of lust. Draco smiled inwardly, willing himself to avoid an unseemly erection. His heart was pounding, blood rushing to his extremnities. He couldn't remember having been so excited since he'd been with Harry.

The bottled desire that he'd somehow shifted to a more innocent incarnation flared and swelled within him. He didn't know what had changed and he probably never would, but it had - Harry's eyes were telling him, "yes," now. They were telling him that Harry wanted him, too.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Draco paced uneasily in front of the Gryffindor common room under his Invisibility Cloak. He worried about prioprism - his erection hadn't subsibed since lunch, when he'd passed the note to Harry. It throbbed now, and he ached to see the portrait hole open and show him the boy he desperately wanted.

It did. Harry climbed out, seeming to the impatient Draco a bit needy himself. He lifted the Cloak and came under, kissing Draco passionately once they were both fully covered. Draco groaned, aching ever more, and pulled as far away from Harry as the tightly-stretched Cloak would allow.

"We need to get there," Draco half-joked, his voice a bit lower than he was used to. Harry nodded agreement and they walked off quickly, having an effective method of walking in step with each other to get where they were going without tripping.

As soon as the door opened, Draco couldn't help but barge in. He couldn't hold himself back any longer.

The couch was gone, replaced once again by the impossibly large bed. Seeing it gave Draco a nostalgic lurch. He remembered first lying there with Harry in his arms, first uncovering Harry's body and marveling at its unexpected angles and hard lines, the small scars that had gathered from trips and falls and bruises over the years. He remembered when Harry had first seen the Dark Mark etched into his skin, how his fingers had traced it carefully and how painfully remorseful Harry's eyes had been when he saw how tender the skin there was, even months after it had been ingrained there. There had been anger in Harry then, too, oh, yes. There was always anger in Harry that was waiting to spit its flames, smoulder and smoke and burn his reason. Such a passionate man he could be! Draco realized. How could he have hidden this deep part of himself from the one he should have hidden nothing from? Grief, inexplicably, took him, and Harry felt the change in him.

"What is it?" he asked, wrapping himself around Draco, holding him against his own body. "What's wrong, Draco?"

Draco remembered the same words coming from Blaise Zabini, and how similar the situation had been. i Life is circular /i , he thought, unsure of who had said that to put the thought into his head. Certainly not his father. The problem then had been that he didn't feel enough in that moment to do what Zabini wanted. The problem now, however, was that he felt too much.

The words rushed from him before he could pull them back, but Draco no longer cared about holding back from Harry. He needed him to know how he felt.

"I love you, Harry," he said, knowing as the words resonated in his body and sung from his throat that he'd never said anything more true.

Harry was silent for a long while. His face was curiously open and closed, and Draco couldn't tell if he'd taken the proclamation with acceptance.

After so long, after so, so, very long, Harry opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. Draco was on the verge of shaking him to his senses. The word, "well?" was on the tip of his tongue, and he held it back only by biting his lip.

"Draco, I - " Harry stammered, his face opening just slightly and his arms clenching around Draco even tighter. "I love you, too," he said eventually. And he smiled, apparently liking the sound of the words. "I love you."

Need filled Draco. He felt as though a dam in his heart had broken and rushed its contents to the far corners of his person. He didn't remember whose mouth sought whose, but it hardly mattered as soon as the soft flesh of their lips collided. His heart fluttered, and the thought of palpitations floated in his mind before Harry's hands on his lower abdomen drove out every conscious thought.

He knew Harry was a virgin, but Draco had more than enough experience for both of them. His body took over, his hands moving freely and of their own accord, his hips grinding intimately against Harry's.

Harry's breathing was labored, his own hips pushing against Draco's in a pleaded response. "I don't really know what I'm doing," he admitted, his voice a lust-filled groan.

Not trusting himself to speak, Draco nodded in response and ran his hand over Harry's cheek, using his other arm to draw him closer. His hand on Harry's face skimmed over his neck, his shoulder, his chest, tickled lightly down his belly and paused only briefly at Harry's fly before taking a firm hold of his erection and squeezing with tightly clenched fingers. Harry gasped and groaned, pushing himself closer to Draco, thrusting into his hand.

"How do you want . . . " Harry asked with labored breathing.

Draco knew what he was asking and he knew what he wanted. He also knew that Harry would be much easier with the proceedings if he had a free reign. "You can," he replied, marveling at the love and lust in his voice and that all of his emotions could be expressed in two simple words.

Harry nodded, and worked greedily at undressing his partner. Draco restrained himself from assisting; he wanted Harry to feel the power of dominating his love, to know the rush of lust and satisfaction that comes from taking the lead in lovemaking.  
And Harry took it, as Draco lowered himself onto the bed and laid against the sheets. Harry grabbed the lubricant, conveniently located (Merlin, Draco loved the Room of Requirement!) on a bedside table. "Should you . . . you know, roll over?" Harry asked, kneeling before Draco's sprawled form.

Shaking his head, Draco slid a pillow himself. "I want to see you," he said, and had to hold back the euphoria of orgasm at the thought of it.

"Should I . . . "

"Yes," Draco whispered.

Carefully and even a little nervously, Harry applied the lube to his fingers and to Draco, sliding his fingers in and around his hole. "Does that feel right?" he asked, clearly hoping Draco had more expertise in this than he did.

When it came to male intimacy, however, Draco was in virgin territory, as well. He didn't know if it was enough, or how it was supposed to feel. He did know, though, that Harry stroking him that way was driving him absolutely insane. "Yes," he whispered hoarsely, "God, yes, that feels wonderful."

Apparently encouraged, Harry pushed deeper, spreading his fingers and stretching the skin at his entry. "I want you," he grunted, clearly barely restraining himself.

"Then take me," Draco replied, feeling as he had entered into a dream, that this reality could not possibly be as good as it was.

When Harry took him, the wonder and care in his eyes quickly pushed Draco over the edge. Harry held on for only a moment longer before his orgasm overtook him, as well.

Nearly spent, suspended over his lover, Harry brushed his lips against Draco's forehead. "I love you," he said quietly, soft tremors resonating in his voice. "God, I love you so much."

Serenity floated over Draco when Harry's lips touched his face. Love, so strong and overwhelming an emotion that Draco could barely contain himself, filled his every thought. The words spilled from his soul, dripped from his heart and honeyed his tone. "I love you, Harry."

Harry shifted, rolling onto his side and taking Draco into his arms. "I wish we could stay here," he murmured.

Draco pulled the sheets up over the two of them. "We can't, for more than another hour or so."

"Well, I know that," Harry said with a sigh. "I just wish everything wasn't so complicated."

"What's complicated? We love each other. We can't always have each other, so we're taking the chance we have now. At least we'll have our memories. Isn't that enough?"

"I don't know, Draco. Is it?"

Slightly exasperated, Draco met Harry's eye with a strong, unwavering gaze. "We both know we can't exactly run off and marry. Our lives are already chosen, what we're going to do and how. I'll probably never see you again after term, Harry."  
This was something he'd never said before, and the moment the words escaped him he realized why he'd never said it. Harry's crestfallen face, the deep look of hurt in his eyes, made Draco almost feel as thought he had slapped him.

"What is this for you, Draco?" he asked, the pain evident in his voice, as well. "Some great game to get me in your bed, make sport of me?"

"No! You know bloody well that isn't what this is," Draco nearly shouted. Anger welled in him, and resentment.

"Then what is it? What is this whole i thing /i ?"

Getting up from bed and dressing haphazardly, Draco knew he couldn't spend another minute in the company of this infuriating Gryffindor. The love he'd felt so acutely only minutes before had withered to a distant, detached memory of an emotion. He need to be alone, to regroup, to think. "This i thing /i , Harry, is us. It's the part of our lives that crosses to mean anything, and it's a part of i my /i life, at least, that I will never regret. Whether you can say the same is your own bloody business"

Without looking back - he wouldn't have been able to leave if he'd looked back - Draco left the Room of Requirement.


	13. Chapter 13

_Note: This is the final chapter of this story. It was a joy writing it and the feedback it received frankly amazed me. Y'all have been so supportive through the stop-and-go writing of this - thank you so much! I don't know if I'll be writing anymore Drarry, but it's been an enjoyable ride through this fic with y'all._

_Without further ado . . . The Noble Emotions._

_Chapter Thirteen _

As Draco had sadly suspected, nothing remained the same after their fight. He thought that, perhaps, if their relationship had more of a chance to grow and expand, it would be easier, and even partially worthwhile, to heal the wounds of the argument. As it was, there was no incentive to care; the term was nearly at its end, and the plan was nearly prepared to be set in motion. Within a week of their separation, there would be no chance whatsoever for reconciliation.

He threw himself into the preparations in the absence of Harry's company. Draco could feel his old, comfortable thoughts seeping around him; life became something to manipulate, a game to play - rather than something to be enjoyed. The happiness he'd felt with Harry slipped away from memory. Draco knew that he loved him, but he could now barely remember why.

And, very soon, it would no longer matter.

On the day it was to happen, Draco moved through the schedule he'd been following for years; knowing in his heart that this would be the very last time. Potter wasn't in classes, he remembered vaguely, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered why.

Draco hoped against hope that Harry wouldn't be here for this.

The note came at five in the evening, bearing one word in Snape's elegant script. "Time."

Indeed, it was. And Draco was ready.

They swarmed the castle as Draco hunted for Dumbledore, numb and driven by his mission. The Death Eaters were animals, jackals; they gleefully destroyed everything in their path.

He slipped away from the others, tried to complete the mission on his own. He hunted the corridors, climbed the winding staircases, trying to do what he knew he could not do.

Somehow he was outside, and there he was - the man he was meant to kill. Harry, too, Harry was there, with his familiar presence and lovely green eyes. Harry. Draco fell into his arms, acknowledging his bitter defeat and the terrible pain he had wrought. Dumbledore urged them to hide, hide under the Cloak, and Snape was there; Snape, ready to complete the mission he had always known Draco would fail.

The Incantation uttered, the green, green light and Harry's green, green eyes and Draco was crying into Harry's shoulder, Harry who would hold him and protect him, and Merlin, who would hopefully forgive him. His mind reverberated around his name, screaming endless chants of "Harry! Harry!" and there was a noise - Draco realized the noise was his voice, screaming the name his mind could not let go of. Harry shushing him, rocking him, something warm and wet on his cheek and Draco knew it was his tears, Harry crying ever louder as his attempts to silence Draco continued.

They held each other, huddled under the Cloak in a warm June night, and the green, green Mark floated above them.

_Fin._


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